The end was, indeed, coming. Home,
after his transient victory, encumbered
with plunder, being kept in check by
Dacre's horse, held his footing in a state
of checkmate on the hill, unable to strike
down on the admiral. The fiery rashness
of the Highlanders of Crawford and
Montrose had led to the same fate that had
befallen the clans of Lennox and Argyle.
The Lancashire and Cheshire men shouldering
back the Highlanders, and fighting
viciously with hewing halberds, blood-dripping
bills, and clashing partisans,drove
them over the hill.  In vain swung the
broadswords on shield and burganet, the
English maces and axes beat down many of
the rough clansmen, and at last the kilted
men reeled, loosened, scattered, and fled.
The English left wing was victorious.

But in the centre the battle was still
doubtful. Home might yet break through
Dacre's horse, and envelope and destroy
the old earl. The Scottish king was still
rather gaining than losing ground. There
had been nearly three hours' fighting, the
sun had set, it was fast getting dark. The
wind blew high on the hill-side, and a thick
rain drove against the stern faces of the
Scottish knights who surrounded their king.

Stanley's success decided the battle.
The men of Lennox and Argyle not rallying,
he was able to mount the hill and look
below on the struggle in the twilight—the
centre whirlpool of men and horses, the
gathering-place of the harvest of lances.
The chief target of the English arrows
was round the southern base of the Piper's
Hill below him to the west. There the
halberds, and bills, and maces, and axes
fell fastest and loudest; there the dark,
ghostly masses of grappling men butted,
and swayed, and jostled, thickest and
fiercest. The Scotch, finding the ground
slippery with blood, had taken off their
boots and shoes. There was sore need of
some desperate effort, for now, through
the great wind and rain, Stanley's ten
thousand men-at-arms bore down to where
the clamour of battle-cries rose loudest;
the circle of death closed slowly in on the
king, as the hunters close round a royal
stag at bay, the Earl of Surrey pressing
on in front and right, Stanley on the
rear, Lord Thomas Howard on the left
flank. As the English axes hewed nearer
and nearer to King James, noble after noble
fell by his side. The Earl of Caithness was
down, then fell the Earl of Cassilis, the
Earl of Morton, the Earl of Marr. The
Earl of Errol was dead long since under
the trampling feet of the fighters. The
Earl of Bothwell was killed. Lord Ross
was gone. The Earl of Marishall had lost
his two sons, but there was no time to weep
for them then.

Desperately fought the king and his
champions. Some Scottish prisoners, says
an old chronicler, might have been taken,
but "they were so vengeable and cruel in
their fighting, that when Englishmen had
the better of them, they would not save
them, though divers Scots offered great
sums of money for their lives."  Still blow
by blow the English axes and bills hewed,
struck, and hammered, to cleave a way
to the dark, blood-stained, central figure
who still fought with immovable courage.
When the Scottish spears broke, James's
barons drew their "great and sharp
swords," and without cry or shout fought
on. This last desperate struggle for life
Scott has painted with almost Homeric
force:

       The English shafts in volleys hailed,
       In headlong charge their horse assailed,
       Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
       To break the Scottish circle deep,
           That fought around their king.
       But yet though thick the shafts as snow,
       Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
       Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,
           Unbroken was the ring.
       The stubborn spearmen still made good
       Their dark impenetrable wood,
       Each stepping where his comrade stood
           The instant that he fell.
       No thought was there of dastard flight,
       Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
       Groom fought like noble, squire like king
           As fearlessly and well.

The arrows fell faster, the lances pressed
closer, the bills fell heavier and more
furiously.  Hector Maclean of Dowart,
seeing his royal master in danger from the
English archers, threw himself before James,
and instantly perished. At last, seeing Sir
Adam Foreman, his standard-bearer, fall,
the king rushed sword in hand among the
English, and was struck down. His body
was found the next day under heaps of
slain;  he had been pierced by two arrows;
the blow of a bill had cleft his neck, and his
left hand was almost cut off. Of his own
band none escaped;  even his chancellor,
Sir William Scott, and his sergeant-porter,
Sir John Foreman, were with great difficulty
saved. There lay dead around him,
two bishops, two mitred abbots, twelve
earls, thirteen lords, and five eldest sons
of peers.

"The number of gentlemen slain," says
Scott, "was beyond calculation;  there is
scarcely a family of name in Scottish
history who did not lose a relative there."