Lindesay now bade the guard open the palisade that closed the tented
field, and as into its ample bounds Marmion passed, the warders' men
drew back. The Scottish warriors stared at the strangers, and envy arose
at seeing them so well appointed. Such length of shaft, bows so mighty,
had never been seen by northern eyes. Little did the Highlanders then
think to feel these shafts through links of Scotch mail on Flodden
Field.

No less did Marmion and his men marvel that one small country could
marshal forth such hosts. Men-at-arms were heavily sheathed in mail.
They were like iron towers on Flemish steeds. Young squires and knights
practiced their chargers on the plain to pass, to wheel, to curvet, that
the swords of their riders might not descend amiss on foeman's casque.
Hardy burghers were there, marching on foot. No waving plume, no crest
they wore, but corselet, gorget, and brigantine, brightly burnished. The
yeomen, too, were on foot, yet dressed in steel. Each at his back
carried forty days' provisions. His arms were the halbert, axe, or
spear, a crossbow, a dagger, or a sword. Each seemed almost sad at
leaving the dear cottage, the simple pleasures and duties of home, to
march into a foreign land. It was not cowardice, not terror, for the
more they loved Scotland the more fiercely would they fight.

Quite another class was the Borderer, bred to war. He joyed to hear the
roar of battle. No harp, no lute, could please his ear as did the loud
slogan. Nobles might fight for fame, vassals might follow, burghers
might guard their townships, but to a battle the Borderer joyfully took
his way as to a game, scarce caring who might win the day.

Marmion next viewed the Celtic race. Each tribe had its own chief, its