They could have done so, legally, according to
the terms of his banishment; but they did so,
I am sorry to say, in a shabby and unworthy
manner. Led by the Earl of Lancaster, the
King's cousin, they first of all attacked the
King and Gaveston at Newcastle. They had
time to escape by sea, and the mean King,
having his precious Gaveston with him, was
quite content to leave his lovely wife behind.
When they were comparatively safe, they
separated; the King went to York to collect
a force of soldiers; and the favorite shut
himself up, in the meantime, in Scarborough
Castle over-looking the sea. This was what
the Barons wanted. They knew that the
Castle could not hold out; they attacked it;
and made Gaveston surrender. He delivered
himself up to the Earl of Pembroke—that Lord
whom he had called the Jew—on the Earl's
pledging his faith and knightly word, that no
harm should happen to him and no violence
be done him.

Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he
should be taken to the Castle of Wallingford,
and there kept in honorable custody. They
travelled as far as Dedington, near Banbury,
where, in the Castle of that place, they stopped
for a night to rest. Whether the Earl of
Pembroke left his prisoner there, knowing
what would happen, or really left him thinking
no harm, and only going (as he pretended)
to visit his wife, the Countess, who was in the
neighbourhood, is no great matter now; in
any case, he was bound as an honorable
gentleman to protect his prisoner, and he did not
do it.  In the morning, while the favorite
was yet in bed, he was required to dress
himself and come down into the court-yard. He
did so without any mistrust, but started and
turned pale when he found it full of strange
armed men. "I think you know me?" said
their leader, also armed from head to foot.
"I am the black dog of Ardenne!"

The time was come when Piers Gaveston
was to feel the black dog's teeth indeed. They
set him on a mule, and carried him, in mock
state and with military music, to the black
dog's kennel—Warwick Castle—where a
hasty council, composed of some great noblemen,
considered what should be done with
him. Some were for sparing him, but one
loud voice—it was the black dog's bark, I
dare say—sounded through the Castle Hall,
uttering these words: "You have the fox in
your power. Let him go now, and you must
hunt him again."  They sentenced him to
death. He threw himself at the feet of the
Earl of Lancaster—the old hog—but the old
hog was as savage as the dog. He was
taken out upon the pleasant road, leading
from Warwick to Coventry, where the
beautiful river Avon, by which, long afterwards,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was born and now
lies buried, sparkled in the bright landscape
of the beautiful May-day; and there they
struck off his wretched head, and stained the
dust with his blood.

When the King heard of this black deed,
in his grief and rage he denounced relentless
war against his Barons, and both sides were
in arms for half-a-year. But, it then became
necessary for them to join their forces against
Bruce, who had used the time well while they
were divided, and had now a great power in
Scotland.

Intelligence was brought that Bruce was
then besieging Stirling Castle, and that the
Governor had been obliged to pledge himself
to surrender it, unless he should be relieved
before a certain day. Hereupon, the King
ordered the nobles and their fighting-men to
meet him at Berwick; but, the nobles cared
so little for the King, and so neglected the
summons, and lost time, that only on the day
before that appointed for the surrender,
did the King find himself at Stirling, and
even then with a smaller force than he
had expected. However, he had, altogether,
a hundred thousand men, and Bruce had not
more than forty thousand; but, Bruce's army
was strongly posted in three square columns,
on the ground lying between the Burn or
Brook of Bannock and the walls of Stirling
Castle. On the very evening, when the King
came up, Bruce did a brave act that
encouraged his men. He was seen by a
certain HENRY DE BOHUN, an English Knight,
riding about before his army on a little horse,
with a light battle-axe in his hand, and a
crown of gold on his head. This English
Knight, who was mounted on a strong warhorse
cased in steel, strongly armed, and able
(as he thought) to overthrow Bruce by
crushing him with his mere weight, set spurs
to his great charger, rode on him, and made
a thrust at him with his heavy spear. Bruce
parried the thrust, and with one blow of his
battle-axe split his skull.

The Scottish men did not forget this, next
day when the battle raged. RANDOLPH,
Bruce's valiant Nephew, rode, with the small
body of men he commanded, into such a host
of the English, all shining in polished armour
in the sunlight, that they seemed to be
swallowed up and lost, as if they had plunged
into the sea. But, they fought so well, and
did such dreadful execution, that the English
staggered. Then, came Bruce himself upon
them, with all the rest of his army. While
they were thus hard pressed and amazed, there
appeared upon the hills what they supposed to
be a new Scottish army, but what were really
only the camp followers, in number fifteen
thousand: whom Bruce had taught to shew
themselves at that place and time. The Earl
of Gloucester, commanding the English horse,
made a last rush to change the fortune of the
day; but, Bruce (like Jack the Giant-killer in
the story) had had pits dug in the ground,
and covered over with turfs and stakes.
Into these, as they gave way beneath the
weight of the horses, riders and horses rolled
by hundreds. The English were completely
routed; all their treasure, stores, and engines,