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formed up in a row by the city officers. The Lord Lyon King of Arms and his heralds placed themselves to one side, a colourful crew, and a group of Privy Councillors and Lords of Session took stance opposite. Mus icians were beckoned forward to a lower, subsidiary platform nearby, and started to tune up.
    The long-awaited moment arrived—fourteen years awaited, in fact, for this was 1617—and Scotland's curious absentee monarch came into view round the burgh wall, riding at a brisk trot before a multi-hued company of gentlemen which stretched away out of sight. All who sat rose to their feet, and after a false start and some uncertainty the musicians struck up with the rousing strains of Brace's battle-hymn before Bannockburn, generally called "Hey Tutti Tat tie".
    To this stirring accompaniment the royal cavalcade clattered up. James Stewart, as ever, rode like a sack of corn—which was strange considering that he was one of the most enthusiastic horsemen and huntsmen in his two kingdoms. Overdressed but with most of his too-decorative clothing neither quite properly fastened together nor very clean, he wore one of his notably high-crowned hats with jewelled clasp and feather—odd choice for riding—tipped forward over his nose. As far as could be seen beneath it, he appeared to be scowling.
    But neither John nor his mother were really considering their liege-lord and his little eccentricities, concentrating their gaze instead on a stocky, plain-faced man, superbly mounted but much less extravagantly dressed than was the King, who rode immediately to the right, although not nearly so close as the exquisite youth on the other side, clad in the height of London fashion, whose mount almost rubbed against that of the monarch. Behind this trio rode a solid ph alanx of impressive-looking gentl emen, and following on came the endless stream of riders, led by a troop of horsed guards in the royal colours, all gleaming armour and nodding plumes.
    King James and his two companions trotted up to the dais-platform and, timed to synchronise with this, a file of one hundred of the Edinburgh Town Guard marched round from either side of the stage area, all uniformed in unlikely white satin, no less, with beribboned halberds over shoulders, to form up around the monarch—who eyed them somewhat askance, especially the halberds. James did not like weapons of any sort. Thereafter a pair of scantily dressed ladies emerged from behind the solid black-velvet-clad rank of magistrates and councillors of the city, tugging between them what seemed at first sight to be a baby in long clothes but which thankfully proved to be only a life-sized doll. Uttering shrill cries, partially lost in the martial music, the ladies pulled and shook fists at each other until a gorgeously robed figure wearing a crown and carrying both a sword and a sceptre, appeared, apparently to remonstrate with the furious females, although what he said could not be heard for Bruce's battle-hymn. However, his purpose was made sufficiently clear when he raised his sword above the baby, conveniently stretched out between the claimants, obviously to cut it in half, whereupon one of the disputants let go of the doll, wringing her hands and presumably howling, whilst the other clutched it, only to have it snatched from her by the man with the sword, who gave it to the other, who presented it to her bared breast as though to give suck. The crowned individual then turned and bowed deeply to the true and modern Solomon whose unerring judgment was thus exemplified, and all three retired backwards around the Town Council.
    James attempted to speak, but "Hey Tutti Taitie" was still in full swing. Glaring from large, eloquent, indeed quite beautiful Stewart eyes, the monarch, who had no ear for music anyway, took off his high hat and flapped it at the enthusiastic instrumentalists. Without the overshadowing headgear, God's Vice-Regent on Earth, as he was wont to style himself, could be