In the legends that clustered round his name we see him listening in Highland glens to the bay of the bloodhounds on his track, or holding a pass single-handed against a crowd of savage clansmen.

Sometimes the small band which clung to him were forced to support themselves by hunting and fishing, sometimes to break up for safety as their enemies tracked them to their lair.

Bruce himself had more than once to fling off his coat-of-mail and scramble barefoot for very life up the crags.

Little by little, however, the dark sky cleared.

The English pressure relaxed.