true enough, too," said the Englishman, struck by the
appeal.

"Adzooks!" exclaimed the bailiff; "sure Harry Wakefield, the nattiest
lad at Whitson Tryste, Wooler Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank,
is not going to show white feather? Ah, this comes of living so long
with kilts and bonnets; men forget the use of their daddies."

"I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that I have not lost the use of
mine," said Wakefield, and then went on: "This will never do, Robin.
We must have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk of the countryside.
I'll be d--d if I hurt thee. I'll put on the gloves gin thou like.
Come, stand forward like a man."

"To be peaten like a dog," said Robin; "is there any reason in that?
If you think I have done you wrong, I'll go before your shudge, though
I neither know his law nor his language."

A general cry of "No, no--no law, no lawyer! A bellyful and be
friends!" was echoed by the bystanders.

"But," continued Robin, "if I am to fight, I have no skill to fight
like a jackanapes, with hands and nails."

"How would you fight, then?" said his antagonist; "though I am thinking
it would be hard to bring you to the scratch anyhow."

"I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on the first plood
drawn, like a gentlemans."

A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which indeed had rather
escaped from poor Robin's swelling heart than been the dictate of his
sober judgment.

"Gentleman, quotha!" was echoed on all sides, with a shout of
unextinguishable laughter; "a very pretty gentleman, God wot. Canst
get two swords for the gentleman to fight with, Ralph Heskett?"

"No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and lend them two
forks, to be making shift with in the mean time."

"Tush, man," said another, "the bonny Scots come into the world with
the blue bonnet on their heads, and dirk and pistol at their belt."

"Best send post," said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, "to the squire of Corby
Castle, to come and stand second to the gentleman."

In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the Highlander
instinctively griped beneath the folds of his plaid.

"But it's better not," he said in his own language. "A hundred curses
on the swine-eaters, who know neither decency nor civility!"

"Make room, the pack of you," he said, advancing to the door.

But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and opposed his
leaving the house; and when Robin Oig attempted to make his way by