A few paces behind this tattered herald strutted the champion, Rory Dhu Mhor, swinging his kilt, and like the wild stag of his native mountains, haughtily sniffing the breeze.

At this sight, all the fierce old Border blood began to surge through Ringan Oliver’s veins.  The contemptuous challenge goaded him to fury; for the Christianity of our Covenanting ancestors was seldom of that cast which prompts the turning of the other cheek to the smiter, and Ringan was one of the most militant of a militant sect.

“God do so to me, and more also,” shouted he, springing to his feet, “’gin I humble not this blethering boaster, and stop his craw, or he maun stop mine.”

“Na, na, Ringan,” cried his friends, “haud sae, man, haud sae.  Ye’ll be clean dung-ower; ye’re ower sair spent to fecht thenow.”

But this only goaded Ringan the more.

“As the Lord liveth, he shall lick the dust.  Hinder me not, friends, withstand me not; I maun do battle with this Philistine.”

And with that, he rushed into the street, broadsword in hand.

“Diaoul!  Fwhat will this creatur pe tat will pe approaching in such ways and manners pefore a Hieland shentleman?” cried the Highlander with a snort, giving an extra cock to his bonnet.

“I am an unworthy follower of Christ, our spiritual Redeemer, and a soldier of King William, our temporal deliverer; and I stand here to bid you make good your profane boasting.”

“Fhery goot inteet!  Fhery goot inteet! you haf peen suppering at Killiecrankie, and now you would pe after breakfasting at Tunkeld?  By Cot, you shall haf it!”

And Rory drew his claymore.  They were not ill-matched.  Both were big men, both of gigantic strength, both skilled swordsmen.  But the Highlander had by far the greater experience of duelling; it was, in fact, the pride of his life to pick a quarrel and to slay his antagonist.  Moreover, he had his target, which was of immense assistance in warding off blows; and Ringan had no guard other than his sword, which fact, in itself, made the combat unequal.  And, to crown all, the Highlander was infinitely the fresher.  But the dour, fiery, old Border blood had brought Ringan to this pass, when he was in no way fit to fight, and, whatever the cost, he must now go through with it.

So to it they fell.  Long they fought, and fiercely, till the breath came hard-drawn and short, and the red blood ran fast from both combatants.  Only, the Highlander was less distressed than Ringan, his wounds fewer and less serious.  Still, they kept on without pause, till to the fierce joy of the Highland onlookers, and the dull misery of others, it became quite plain that Ringan’s time had come.  Human nature could do no more; he was beaten, and was being driven slowly back and back, his defence each minute getting less vigorous and confident, his attack less to be dreaded.  Loud rang the exulting Gaelic yells to Rory to finish him, to “give his flesh to the eagles.”