So thought one of the English knights, Sir Henry de Bohun by name.
Putting spurs to his powerful horse, he galloped furiously upon the
king, thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce saw him coming,
but made no movement of flight. He sat his pony warily, waiting the
onset, until Bohun was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quick
touch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse, and the lance-point
sped past, missing its mark.
The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm; the English host in equally
breathless expectation; it seemed for the moment as if Robert the Bruce
were lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward by the career of his
steed, King Robert rose in his stirrups, swung his battle-axe in the
air, and brought it down on his adversary's head with so terrible a blow
that the iron helmet cracked as though it were a nutshell, and the
knight fell from his horse, dead before he reached the ground.
King Robert turned and rode back, where he was met by a storm of
reproaches from his nobles, who declared that he had done grave wrong
in exposing himself to such danger, when the safety of the army depended
on him. The king heard their reproaches in silence, his eyes fixed on
the fractured edge of his weapon.
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