ABSTRACT
About the hour of twilight, on the eighth day after Bruce had cast his last look on the capital of England, - that scene of his long captivity under the spell of delusion, that theatre of his family's disgrace and of his own eternal regrets! - he crossed the little stream which marked the oft-contended barrier land of the two kingdoms. He there checked the headlong speed of his horse, and having alighted to give it breath, walked by its side, musing on how different were the feelings with which he now entered Scotland, from the buoyant emotions with which he had sprung on its shore in the beginning of the year. These thoughts, as full of sorrow as of hope, had not occupied him long, when he espied a man in the Red Cummin's colours, galloping towards him. He guessed him to be some new messenger of the Regent to Edward, and throwing himself before the horse, caught it by the bridle, and commanded its rider to deliver to him the dispatches which he knew he carried to the King of England. The man, as was expected, refused, and striking his spurs into his beast, tried to trample down his assailant. But Bruce was not so to be put from his aim. The manner of the Scot convinced him that his suspicions were right, and putting forth his nervous arm, with one action he pulled him from his saddle and laid him prostrate on the ground. Again he demanded the papers: 'I am your prince,' cried Bruce, 'and by the allegiance you owe to Robert Bruce, I command you to deliver them into my hands. Life shall be your reward. Immediate death the punishment of your obstinacy.'
