Hall, severely wounded in the head, was taken, and died
before he could be carried even so far as Edinburgh.

For some years after this we have no record of Ringan's doings; possibly
part of the time he spent on his farm at Smailcleuchfoot. In 1689,
however, he was with General Mackay at Killiecrankie. And again, as at
Bothwell Bridge, sorely against his inclination he experienced the
horrors of headlong flight in company of a broken rabble. Reaching
Dunkeld in an exhausted condition early in the following morning, he and
a few comrades found shelter in the house of a friend. But as they sat,
about to fall to on a much needed meal, down the little street came the
"rat-tat-tat" of a drum, and past the window swaggered an unkempt
Highland drummer, halting at intervals to hurl defiance at all Whigs,
and a challenge to them to fight the famous Highland champion, Rory Dhu
Mhor. And this is something after the fashion of what Ringan and his
weary comrades heard drawled out with fine nasal whine:

"This will pe to pe kiving notice to aal it may pe concerning, tat Rory
Dhu Mhor of ta Clan Donachy will pe keeping ta crown of ta causeway in
ta toun of Tunkel for wan hour and mhore. And he iss civilly tesiring it
to pe known tat if there will pe any canting, poo-hooing, psalm-singing
whig repellioner in ta toun, and he will pe so pould as to pe coming
forth his hiding holes, and looking ta said Rory Dhu Mhor in ta face, ta
said Rory Dhu Mhor herepy kifs promise to pe so ferry condescending as
to pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter by ta legs, for ta honour
of King Tchames. Ochilow! Cot save King Tchames!"

A few paces behind this tattered herald strutted the champion, Rory Dhu
Mhor, swinging his kilt, and like the wild stag of his native mountains,
haughtily sniffing the breeze.

At this sight, all the fierce old Border blood began to surge through
Ringan Oliver's veins. The contemptuous challenge goaded him to fury;
for the Christianity of our Covenanting ancestors was seldom of that
cast which prompts the turning of the other cheek to the smiter, and
Ringan was one of the most militant of a militant sect.

"God do so to me, and more also," shouted he, springing to his feet,
"'gin I humble not this blethering boaster, and stop his craw, or he
maun stop mine."

"Na, na, Ringan," cried his friends, "haud sae, man, haud sae. Ye'll be
clean dung-ower; ye're ower sair spent to fecht thenow."

But this only goaded Ringa