d away from looking at the figure of the wearied
Borderer, beaten down on to his knee, away from sight of the flashing
claymore that was now so near to tasting their friend's life-blood. And
then to their ears came a roar, as of the routing of some mighty bull of
Bashan. Glancing back quickly, their astonished eyes saw Rory Dhu Mhor
standing rigidly erect and stiff, an expression of blank wonder on his
hairy face, and the point of Ringan's broadsword appearing out between
the Highlander's shoulders. Then, with another mighty roar, as the sword
was withdrawn, he sprang convulsively off the ground, and with a clatter
fell heavily on his target, dead. It was a spent man that he was dealing
with, he had rashly thought. Too well he knew the game; he had played it
successfully so often before. It needed but to go in now and slay. In
his over confidence the Highlander neglected for one moment to be
cunning of fence, and during that moment he exposed his body. It was
enough for a swordsman so skilled as Ringan Oliver. Exhausted as he was,
like a flash his weapon leapt forward, and the great Highland champion
had fought his last fight.

It was near to being a dearly bought victory. Murder was in the hearts
of the Highlanders, as for the moment they stood in savage silence,
hungering for the life of their champion's overthrower. And Ringan was
fainting from loss of blood, unable to raise himself from the trampled,
muddy ground on which he had fallen. Things indeed looked ill for him
and for his friends. And ill, no doubt, it would have fared with them,
if just then it had not chanced that the certain news reached the
Highlanders in Dunkeld of the death of him they called "Ian Dhu nan
Cath" (Black John of the Battles), John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount
Dundee, slain the previous day in Killiecrankie fight. Thus it happened
that, instead of falling sword in hand on the little party of
Lowlanders, the dismayed clansmen began to slip away, and Ringan's
friends succeeded in getting their sorely wounded comrade into safety.

It was some time after this, when life had become less stormy, that
Ringan again took up his residence at Smailcleuchfoot. Here he continued
to live till he was quite an old man. It was here, too, that the
incident befell which gave rise to the ballad written by Mr. James
Telfer early in last century.

Ringan had ever been known as well for his rigid ideas of faith and
honour as for his great strength and unda