"And the Scotch?" asked Nigel. "You have made war upon them also,
as I understand."

"The Scotch knights have no masters in the world, and he who can
hold his own with the best of them, be it a Douglas, a Murray or a
Seaton, has nothing more to learn. Though you be a hard man, you
will always meet as hard a one if you ride northward. If the
Welsh be like the furze fire, then, pardieu! the Scotch are the
peat, for they will smolder and you will never come to the end of
them. I have had many happy hours on the marches of Scotland, for
even if there be no war the Percies of Alnwick or the Governor of
Carlisle can still raise a little bickering with the border
clans."

"I bear in mind that my father was wont to say that they were very
stout spearmen."

"No better in the world, for the spears are twelve foot long and
they hold them in very thick array; but their archers are weak,
save only the men of Ettrick and Selkirk who come from the forest.
I pray you to open the lattice, Nigel, for the steam is overthick.
Now in Wales it is the spearmen who are weak, and there are no
archers in these islands like the men of Gwent with their bows of
elm, which shoot with such power that I have known a cavalier to
have his horse killed when the shaft had passed through his mail
breeches, his thigh and his saddle. And yet, what is the most
strongly shot arrow to these new balls of iron driven by the fire-
powder which will crush a man's armor as an egg is crushed by a
stone? Our fathers knew them not."