come
more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could
only enjoy them in secret. But insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no
longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage
which he belonged to--nothing was left to him--but revenge.

When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, seven or eight English
miles at least lay betwixt him and Morrison, whose advance was limited
by the sluggish pace of his cattle. And now the distant lowing of
Morrison's cattle is heard; and now he meets them--passes them, and
stops their conductor.

"May good betide us," said the South-lander--"Is this you, Robin
M'Combich, or your wraith?"

"It is Robin Oig M'Combich," answered the Highlander, "and it is
not.--But never mind that, give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there
will be words petween us."

"There it is for you then, since less wunna serve."

"Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with
Robin Oig again either at tryste or fair."

So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in
the direction from which he had advanced.

Long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken
place. It was two hours after the affray when Robin Oig returned to
Heskett's inn. There was Harry Wakefield, who amidst a grinning group of
smockfrocks, hob-nailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was
trolling forth an old ditty, when he was interrupted by a high and stern
voice, saying "Harry Waakfelt--if you be a man, stand up!"

"Harry Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if you
be a man!"

"I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to
shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness.

"'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman,
thou canst not fight more than a school-girl."

"I _can_ fight," answered Robin Oig, sternly, but calmly, "and you shall
know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls
fight--I show you now how the Highland Dunniewassal fights."

He then plunged the dagger, which he suddenly displayed, into the broad
breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal certainty and force, that
the hilt made a hollow sound against the breast bone, and the
double-edged point split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield
fell, and expired with a single groan.

Robin next offered the bloody poniard to the bailiff's throat.

"It