I caught John Scarlet's look of
satisfaction, and judged that he anticipated no danger to one whom he
had trained, from a fighter at haphazard like Cornet Peter Inglis. But
yet the dragoon was no tyro, for he had proved himself in many a
hard-stricken fray.

So without a word they fell to it. And, by my faith, it made a strange
picture on the grassy track which wound itself through these wilds, to
see the glossy black of Wat Gordon's charger front the heavier weight of
the King's man's grey.

At the first crossing of the swords, the style of the two men was made
evident. That of Inglis was the simpler. He fought most like a practical
soldier, with the single purpose of making his adversary feel the edge
of his weapon; while Wat, lighter and lither, had all the parade and
pomp of the schools.

Lochinvar depended on a low tierce guard with a sloping point, and
reined his horse near, that his enemy might be prevented from closing
with him on his left, or side of disadvantage. The dragoon used the
simpler hanging guard and pressed upon his adversary with plain dour
weight of steel.

At the first clash of the iron the horses heaved their heads, and down
from the hillside above there came a faint crying as of shepherds to
their flocks. But the combatants were too intent to take notice. John
Scarlet reined his horse at the side, his head a little low set between
his shoulders, and his eyes following every thrust and parry with a
glance like a rapier.

For the first five minutes Inglis tried all his powers of battering upon
Wat Gordon's lighter guard, his heavy cavalry sword beating and
disengaging with the fellest intent. He fought with a still and
lip-biting fury. He struck to kill, hammering with strong threshing
blows; Wat, more like a duellist of the schools--rather, as it seemed,
to show his mastery of the weapon. But nevertheless the thin supple
blade of the young laird followed every beat and lunge of the heavier
iron with speed and certainty. Each moment it seemed as if Wat must
certainly be cut down. But his black obeyed the rein at the moment of
danger, and his sword twisted round that of his adversary as an adder
winds itself about a stick.

More and more angry grew the dragoon, and a grim smile sat intent and
watchful on the face of John Scarlet. But he spoke never a word, and the
red sentries paced placidly to and fro along the burnside of Garryhorn.
More and more wildly Cornet Inglis struck, urging his h