Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting, men who knew not the
meaning of flight. But the bulk of the army was in hopeless panic,
flying for life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsoned
claymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran red with blood.
King Edward found war less than ever to his royal taste. He fled to
Stirling Castle and begged admittance.
"I cannot grant it, my liege," answered Mowbray. "My compact with the
Bruce obliges me to surrender the castle to-morrow. If you enter here it
will be to become prisoner to the Scotch."
Edward turned and continued his flight, his route lying through the
Torwood. After him came Lord Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressing
forward in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight, Sir Lawrence
Abernethy, with twenty horsemen, riding to join Edward's army.
"Edward's army? He has no army," cried Douglas. "The army is a rout.
Edward himself is in flight. I am hot on his track."
"I am with you, then," cried Abernethy, changing sides on the instant,
and joining in pursuit of the king whom he had just before been eager to
serve.
Away went the frightened king. On came the furious pursuers. Not a
moment was given Edward to draw rein or alight.
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