imultaneously crossed over to the attack. For the
Marshal de Retz, if not in complete defiance of the written rule of
chivalry, at least against the spirit of gallantry and the rules of
the present tourney, would have thrust the Earl through with his spear
as he lay, crying at the same time, "A outrance! A outrance!" to
excuse the foulness of his deed.

It was lucky for himself that he did not succeed, for, undoubtedly,
the Douglases then on the field would have torn him to pieces for what
they not unnaturally considered his treachery. As it was, there
sounded a mighty roar of anger all about the barriers, and the crowd
pressed so fiercely and threateningly that it was as much as the
archers could do to keep them within reasonable bounds.

"Saints' mercy!" puffed stout Ninian Halliburton, "let us get out of
this place. I am near bursen. Haud off there, varlet, ken ye not that
I am a Bailie of Dumfries? Keep your feet off the tail o' my brown
velvet gown. It cost nigh upon twenty silver shillings an ell!"

"A Douglas! A Douglas! Treachery! Treachery!" yelled a wild Minnigaff
man, thrusting a naked brand high into the air within an inch of the
burgess's nose. That worthy citizen almost fell backwards in dismay,
and indeed must have done so but for the pressure of the crowd behind
him. He was, therefore, much against his will compelled to keep his
place in the front rank of the spectators.

"Well done, young lad," cried the crowd, seeing Sholto ward and strike
at Poitou and his master, "God, but he is fechtin' like the black deil
himself!"

"It will be as chancy for him," cried the wild Minnigaff hillman, "for
I will tear the harrigals oot o' Sholto MacKim if onything happen to
the Earl!"

But the captain of the guard, light as a feather, had easily avoided
the thrust of the marshal's spear, taking it at an angle and turning
it aside with his shield. Then, springing up behind him, he pulled the
French knight down to the ground with the hook of his axe, by that
trick of attack which was the lesson taught once for all to the Scots
of the Lowlands upon the stricken field of the Red Harlaw.

The marshal fell heavily and lay still, for he was a man of feeble
body, and the weight of his armour very great.

"Slay him! Slay him!" yelled the people, still furious at what, not
without reason, they considered rank treachery.

Sholto recovered himself, and reached his master only in time to find
Poitou bending over Earl Dou