The same sly expression crept over the face of the
King-at-arms as he asked, "Where lodged the Palmer on that fateful
night?"
Here their conversation was interrupted. By the King's command, each
train on the following day was to proceed by its own way to Scotland's
camp, near Edinburgh. Early they set out for the moor surrounding the
city, where lay the Scotch hosts.
From the crown of Blackford, Marmion gazed on the martial scene. It was
a Kingdom's vast array. Thousands on thousands of pavilions, white as
snow, dotted the upland, dale, and down, and checkered the heath between
town and forest. The relics of the old oaks softened the glaring white
with a background of restful green.
From north, from south, from east, from west, had gathered Scotland's
warriors. All between the ages of sixteen and sixty, from king to
vassal, stood ready to fight for the beloved land. Marmion heard the
mingled hum of myriads of voices float up the mountain side. He saw the
shifting lines, and marked the flashing of shield and lance. Nor did he
mark less that in the air,
"A thousand streamers flaunted fair,
Various in shape, device and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
O'er the pavilions flew.
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