th a spring into the air, and a wild flourish of his
stick, he dashed into the crowd.

"Here's Owen Connor, make way for Owen;" cried the non-combatants, as
they jostled and parted each other, to leave a free passage for one
whose prowess was well known.

"He'll lave his mark on some of yez yet!" "That's the boy will give you
music to dance to!" "Take that, Barney!" "Ha! Terry, that made your nob
ring like a forty-shilling pot!" Such and such-like were the comments
on him who now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the very
midst of the combatants, and fought' his way onwards to where some seven
or eight were desperately engaged over the fallen figure of a man. With
a shrill yell no Indian could surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owen
came down in the midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorn
telling on his man as unerringly as though it were wielded by the hand
of a giant.

"Save the young Master, Owen! Shelter him! Stand over him, Owen Connor!"
were how the cries from all sides; and the stout-hearted peasant,
striding over the body of young Leslie, cleared a space around him, and,
as he glanced defiance on all sides, called out, "Is that your courage,
to beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his life? Oh,
you cowardly set! Come and face the men of your own barony if you dare!
Come out on the green and do it!--Pull him away--pull him away quick,"
whispered he to his own party eagerly. "Tear-an-ages! get him out of
this before they're down on me."

As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their party now
trebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down with a force that nothing
could resist. Poor Owen--the mark for every weapon--fell almost the
first, his head and face one undistinguishable mass of blood and
bruises, but not before some three or four of his friends had rescued
young Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts of
the fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was impossible, and
self-defence almost suggested some participation in the battle. The
victory was, however, with the Joyces. They were on their own territory;
they mustered every moment stronger; and in less than half an hour they
had swept the enemy from the field, save where a lingering wounded man
remained, whose maimed and crippled condition had already removed him
from all the animosities of combat.

[Illustration: 036]

"Where's the young master?" were the first words Owe