But
their numbers were so great that they might have crushed the Scotch
under their mere weight but for one of these strange chances on which
the fate of so many battles have depended. As has been said, the Scotch
camp-followers had been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing that
their side seemed likely to win the day, this rabble came suddenly
crowding over the hill, eager for a share in the spoil.
It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed English cavalry it
seemed a new army which the Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly stricken
with panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for himself, as fast
as their horses could carry them, the whole army breaking rank and
rushing back in terror over the ground which they had lately traversed
in such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul.
After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing, killing, paving the earth
with English slain. King Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in all
haste from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de Argentine,
who had won glory in Palestine, kept by him till he was out of the
press. Then he drew rein.
"It is not my custom to fly," he said.
Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of "Argentine! Argentine!" he
rushed into the densest ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed.
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