"Then know also that ere this they are face to face with our own lines. A battle as great as that of Crécy----"
Loud shouts were heard in the street without, and then in the great hall.
"My son!" exclaimed the archbishop, listening with lifted hand.
Open swung the door, and a barefooted friar rushed in.
"My Lord Archbishop! A knight from the battle! The Scottish host is defeated----"
But close behind him strode a man in armor, covered with dust, unhelmeted, and marked by a fresh sword cut on his face.
"I waited not, my Lord Archbishop," he said. "King David of Scotland is a prisoner! His army is routed! He hath lost his crown!--What, Richard, art thou here?"
"Praise be to Heaven, Sir Robert Johnstone!" responded the archbishop. "He cometh from the king's victory at Crécy----"
"Knighted!" exclaimed Sir Robert. "Then I will tell thee, Sir Richard Neville of Wartmont, this victory of our English bowmen over the clans and the men-at-arms of Scotland hath been won at the field of Neville's Cross. All the king's counsel hath prevailed, and his realm is safe!"