Famine stood suddenly before them as a gaunt, terrific spectre, whose cold hand it seemed had grasped their very hearts.

Nobles and men, knights and soldiers, alike stood paralyzed, gazing at each other with a blank, dim, unutterable despair.
The shrill blast of many trumpets, the roll of heavy drums, broke that deep stillness.

"The foe! the foe!" was echoed round, fiercely, yet rejoicingly.

"They are upon us--they brave the flames--well done! Now firm and steady; to your arms--stand close.

Sound trumpets--the defiance, the Bruce and Scotland!" and sharply and clearly, as if but just arrayed for battle, as if naught had chanced to bend those gallant spirits to the earth, the Scottish clarions sent back their answering blast, and the men gathered in compact array around their gallant leader.
"My horse--my horse!" shouted Nigel Bruce, as he sprung from rank to rank of the little phalanx, urging, commanding, entreating them to make one last stand, and fall as befitted Scottish patriots.