n the more.

"As the Lord liveth, he shall lick the dust. Hinder me not, friends,
withstand me not; I maun do battle with this Philistine."

And with that, he rushed into the street, broadsword in hand.

"Diaoul! Fwhat will this creatur pe tat will pe approaching in such ways
and manners pefore a Hieland shentleman?" cried the Highlander with a
snort, giving an extra cock to his bonnet.

"I am an unworthy follower of Christ, our spiritual Redeemer, and a
soldier of King William, our temporal deliverer; and I stand here to bid
you make good your profane boasting."

"Fhery goot inteet! Fhery goot inteet! you haf peen suppering at
Killiecrankie, and now you would pe after breakfasting at Tunkeld? By
Cot, you shall haf it!"

And Rory drew his claymore. They were not ill-matched. Both were big
men, both of gigantic strength, both skilled swordsmen. But the
Highlander had by far the greater experience of duelling; it was, in
fact, the pride of his life to pick a quarrel and to slay his
antagonist. Moreover, he had his target, which was of immense assistance
in warding off blows; and Ringan had no guard other than his sword,
which fact, in itself, made the combat unequal. And, to crown all, the
Highlander was infinitely the fresher. But the dour, fiery, old Border
blood had brought Ringan to this pass, when he was in no way fit to
fight, and, whatever the cost, he must now go through with it.

So to it they fell. Long they fought, and fiercely, till the breath came
hard-drawn and short, and the red blood ran fast from both combatants.
Only, the Highlander was less distressed than Ringan, his wounds fewer
and less serious. Still, they kept on without pause, till to the fierce
joy of the Highland onlookers, and the dull misery of others, it became
quite plain that Ringan's time had come. Human nature could do no more;
he was beaten, and was being driven slowly back and back, his defence
each minute getting less vigorous and confident, his attack less to be
dreaded. Loud rang the exulting Gaelic yells to Rory to finish him, to
"give his flesh to the eagles."

And now Ringan, blood flowing from a dozen gashes, was down on one knee,
but still almost mechanically guarding head and body from the whirlwind
final attack of the Highlander. Sick at heart, the Lowland onlookers
turned their looks aside; they hated to see such an end of a brave
comrade, and they were too few to avenge him. Suddenly, and with bent
heads, they turne