Lord Precy lay immovable with wounds in his castle at Alnwick;** and
his hopeless state, by intimidating his followers, contradicted the
orders he gave, to face the marauding enemy. Several times they
attempted to obey, but as often showed their inability. They collected
under arms; but the moment their foe appeared, they fled within the
castle walls, or buried themselves in deep obscurities amongst the
surrounding hills. Not a sheaf in the fields of Northumberland did the
Scots leave, to knead into bread for its earl; not a head of cattle to
smoke upon his board. The country was sacked from sea to sea. But far
different was its appearance from that of the trampled valleys of
Scotland. There, fire had burned up the soil; the hand of violence had
leveled the husbandman's cottage; had buried his implements in the
ruins; had sacrificed himself on its smoking ashes! There, the
fatherless babe wept its unavailing wants, and at its side sat the
distracted widow, wringing her hands in speechless misery; for there
lay her murdered husband-here, her perishing child!
**This famous castle, of so many heroic generations, is still the
princely residence of the head of the house of Percy.
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