Now let the scene shift to Scotland, where the masterful Edward, having subdued Wales, is seeking to lay his hands upon yet another kingdom. Truly the condition of the land invites him to conquest. The Scottish king, on a night ride along the cliffs of the Fifeshire coast, has fallen over the black rocks, and he is no more. The sceptre passes to a frail little grandchild in far-off Norway; but ere she can tread the soil of her kingdom, she too has gone the way of all flesh. The royal line is extinct, and the throne of Scotland is without an heir.

Forthwith a round dozen of eager aspirants set up their claims to the vacant throne. All save two are men of straw, with hardly the colour of a right to the kingship. But Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, and John Baliol, Lord of Galloway, both come of the royal stock, and both have their clamorous supporters. Who shall judge betwixt them? Edward seizes the opportunity. He—so he declares—is overlord of Scotland, and he and none other will decide. So chronicles and title-deeds and charters are collected from many a muniment chest, and he and his councillors are soon busy examining them. When all is ready, he arrays an army and marches north to the Border castle of Norham, on the Tweed. To this place come the magnates of Scotland to hear his award. But before it is pronounced he claims that they shall recognize him as lord paramount. Some of the Scottish chiefs demur, but the English king cries, “By St. Edward, whose crown I wear, I will maintain my just right or die in the cause.” Might is right in his case, and the Scottish nobles, in the distracted state of the kingdom, are forced to admit his claim.

And now, having secured the first point in the game, Edward gives judgment in favour of John Baliol, a lamb-like person, the least stalwart and the least Scottish of all the claimants. He is a weak creature, and Edward knows that he will be a pliant tool. So Baliol bows to Edward, and receives the crown of Scotland.

Ere long Baliol begins to feel Edward’s bit gall his mouth. He is continually being pulled up and jerked hither and thither by the strong hand of his rider. Baliol submits time after time, but at length even his sluggish spirit is roused, and one day he throws off his allegiance and declares war. Edward has long been waiting for this turn of fortune’s wheel; he has long been working for this fatal outburst. Speedily he marches north with a great army and sweeps through the country, a ruthless conqueror. None can stand against him, and the “puppet king” least of all.

See Baliol now, about to do public penance for his so-called misdeeds. The English barons are assembled in a churchyard, and thither they lead the king of the Scots mounted on a sorry nag. A herald proclaims his treason. His crown is snatched from his head, the sceptre from his hand, the royal robes from his person. A humble penitent, clad only in his body garments and holding a white rod in his hand, he meekly confesses his fault and acknowledges the justice of his punishment. A few days later he gives up his crown to Edward, and is dispatched a prisoner to the Tower of London. So Edward returns to his kingdom, leaving Scotland beaten to the ground, sore and humiliated, but passionately longing for revenge. With him he carries every token and memorial of Scottish independence—the crown and the sceptre, and the Stone of Destiny, on which Scottish kings have been crowned from time immemorial.

Now let the great patriot hero whom Scotland delights to honour, even after the lapse of six centuries, tread the scene. He is William Wallace of Elderslie, a young knight of some twenty-seven years, massive of build and mighty of thew and sinew, fit foe for Edward himself. His face is long and fair, his hair light-brown, his eye clear and piercing, his expression solemn and sad. A foul outrage has driven him to the hills, where he is nursing his wrath and biding his time. An English officer has encountered him and his nine followers in the streets of Lanark and has taunted him with insulting words. His long sword has leaped from its scabbard and the insulter has been laid low. The alarm has been sounded, and armed men have rushed to the spot; but Wallace has fought his way through them, and has found a refuge in the woods, where the news of a dastardly crime speedily reaches him. His young and dearly-loved wife has been seized and slain by his cruel foes. Terrible indeed is his agony of grief, but tears avail nothing. “Cease,” he cries to his followers, “cease this bootless pain. We cannot bring her back to life, but no man shall ever see me rest till I have avenged the wanton slaughter of her so blithe and bright.”

That very night he slays the slayer of his love, and day after day he swoops down on his foes like a hawk on its quarry. The fame of his daring deeds spreads abroad, and patriots seek him in his retreat and array themselves under his banner. Now it is an English convoy that is despoiled, now an English foraging party that is cut up. Every day brings its exploit, and throughout the south-western counties the English are everywhere harassed and harried by a foe who comes and goes mysteriously, and leaves no token but slaughtered men and burning roof-trees.

Now see him, no longer the lurking outlaw, but the leader of an army, marching proudly at the head of his men, and fearlessly displaying the broad banner of Scotland. The best and bravest of the land are with him. Not a fortress north of the Tay save Dundee is in English hands. Only a year has sped since Edward left Scotland, in the vain belief that the northern kingdom is a cowed and tamed land. Now he perceives that the work must be done all over again. He gathers an army of fifty thousand men, and speeds northward for Stirling, where high on its rock sits the ancient fortress, the key to the centre of Scotland. Wallace hears of the English advance, and marches to Stirling with all speed. On and about the Abbey Craig, where his noble memorial tower now stands, he encamps, and awaits the coming of his foes.

Ere long their banners are seen approaching. The Earl of Surrey, an old man broken in health, is in command, but the real leader is “fat and foolish” Sir Hugh Cressingham, Edward’s Lord-Treasurer in Scotland, a haughty and insolent priest, who wears his corselet with a better grace than his cassock. The English halt on the south side of the river, and are eager for an immediate attack, but wiser counsels prevail. So the watch-fires are lighted, and the two armies lie in sight of each other through the silent night, with the deep and sluggish Forth flowing between.

Now the trumpets sound, and Sir Marmaduke Twenge leads his squadron of mail-clad knights to the bridge across the Forth, while Cressingham follows hard behind. The spearmen of Wallace, posted on the high ground, are in no hurry to attack. They make no sign as the knights cross the bridge and form up on the opposite shore, ready to charge the Scots on the hillside. Half the English army has crossed ere you perceive the trap into which it has fallen. Look yonder at that strong force of Scottish spearmen fetching a wide circuit and keeping near to the river. Now they begin to run towards the bridge. They cut through the line of the advancing English and block the bridge-head with a hedge of bristling steel. They drive back in a tumultuous heap the advancing horsemen on the crowded bridge, and now the moment for which Wallace has so long waited arrives. He charges furiously down the hillside, and hurls back the English squadrons in dire confusion. Horse and foot are inextricably mingled; hundreds go down before the Scottish spears, and vast numbers are driven into the river, which is lashed into foam by the drowning struggles of thousands of men and horses.

Surrey, horror-stricken at the sight, now advances the royal standard of England, and his strong reserve of knights charge the bridge with the cry “For God and St. George.” The bridge is carried, but on the opposite shore there is no room to form, and they only increase the confusion and swell the slaughter. Of all that have crossed that fatal bridge only three return. All is over, and Surrey on the farther shore sets spurs to his horse. Keen and fierce is the pursuit, and terrible is the slaughter. Edward’s proud host is scattered like chaff before the wind, and Scotland is free again.

The victorious Wallace is hailed by his countrymen as Governor of Scotland. But he has not done with the implacable Edward yet. The English king has appeased his revolting nobles, he has made a truce with the French, and has marshalled the might of his realm for another invasion of Scotland. A vast English army rolls northward. Eighty thousand men, including a large array of archers armed with the terrible long-bow which the men of South Wales have taught them to use, follow his banners. They enter the Lowlands, but Wallace has made it a desert. The houses are bare and empty; no cattle are in the fields; the crops have been reaped, the hay and corn stacks have been carried off. Edward’s army “marches on its stomach,” but Wallace has taken good care that there shall be nothing to fill it. By the time Edward draws near to Edinburgh symptoms of mutiny begin to appear amongst his soldiers, and he begins to meditate retreat.

Then come traitors from the Scottish camp telling him that Wallace lies in the forest of Falkirk, and is about to attack his foes that very night. Edward is filled with joy at the tidings. “Thanks be to God!” he cries. “They need not wait for me, for I shall go instantly and meet them.” There is no delay. In an hour’s time his army is in motion. Linlithgow is reached, and he bivouacs for the night on the moor. Every man sleeps in his armour, his horse ready harnessed by his side. The king himself lies down on the bare ground and shares discomfort with his men. In the night his frightened charger kicks out, and its hoofs break two of the king’s ribs. But with the dawn Edward mounts bravely, and leads his army to rising ground beyond Linlithgow. Here the fighting Bishop of Durham says mass, and as the sun rises Edward’s keen eye sees its rays reflected from the spears of the Scots, now taking ground on the slope of a small hill not far from Falkirk.

Wallace has drawn up his spearmen in four schiltrons or circles. Between these schiltrons are his tall, handsome archers from the forests of Selkirk and Ettrick. His small and doubtful force of cavalry is marshalled in the rear. It includes the Scottish knights, many of whom are jealous of Wallace, and only half-hearted in Scotland’s cause. “I have brought you to the ring,” says the Scottish leader, “now dance as you may.”

The trumpets sound, and the English cavalry charge. At the first onset the Scottish horsemen, led by traitor lords, turn bridle and ride from the field. Then the English knights swoop down upon the Scottish archers, and after a terrible struggle slay them to a man. But again and again they recoil from the “dark, impenetrable wood” of the spearmen. The bristling hedge of spears cannot be broken by the shock of horse and man, but there are other and deadlier means available. The English archers are to win the first of those signal victories which will make them the terror of the age. Drawn up in security scarce a hundred paces away, they shoot their cloth-yard shafts with unerring aim. Thick and fast they fall amidst the spearmen, and soon the living walls are breached. The English cavalry charge into the gaps where the dead and dying lie, and an awful slaughter rages. The battle is over; the Scots betake themselves to flight, and Wallace barely escapes into Torwood Forest.

But even this victory has not laid Scotland at Edward’s feet. Everywhere he finds the country devastated, and he must either retreat or starve. Less than a month after the battle of Falkirk he sullenly leads his army, stricken by famine and disease, southward to England. But he withdraws like the panther, only to spring again. Five successive times he leads his army northward, and Scotland, exhausted by her long and heartrending struggles, at length lies at the conqueror’s feet.

Once more Wallace is an outlaw on the hills. Edward has marked him down for death, and there is a price on his head. He lurks in the greenwood, hunted from cover to cover, with scarce a comrade to trust, and none to aid him. His former friend, Sir John Menteith, at length wins the blood-money. Wallace is seized in his sleep, bound with cords, and hurried south. As he enters London the streets swarm with spectators, all eager to see this renowned warrior of the North. His trial is a mockery. Vainly he protests that he is no traitor, for he has never sworn fealty to the English king. But he is doomed already, and all argument is vain. He is condemned of murder, sacrilege, and treason, and suffers the ghastly and revolting death which was meted out to David of Wales twenty-two years before. His head is set up on London Bridge, his right arm at Newcastle, his left at Berwick, one leg at Perth, and the other at Aberdeen.

So perishes the national hero of Scotland, his body dispersed to “every airt” that the wind blows, but his name and fame cherished for ever in the hearts of his countrymen. He rises like a star in the darkness; he sets in gloom, but not before his radiance has rekindled the torch of Scottish patriotism, the flame of which is nevermore to be extinguished. Wallace cannot die; he lives again in every free and unselfish aspiration of unconquered Scotland.