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 meantime.”
“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 force, he hit him down on the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls down a ninepin.
“A ring, a ring!” was now shouted, until the dark rafters, and the hams that hung on them, trembled again, and the very platters on the BINK clattered against each other. “Well done, Harry” —”Give it him home, Harry”—”Take care of him now—he sees his own blood!”
Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, starting from the ground, all his coldness and caution lost in frantic rage, sprung at his antagonist with the fury, the activity, and the vindictive purpose of an incensed tiger-cat. But when could rage encounter science and temper? Robin Oig again went down in the unequal contest; and as the blow was necessarily a severe one, he lay motionless on the floor of the kitchen. The landlady ran to offer some aid, but Mr. Fleecebumpkin would not permit her to approach.
“Let him alone,” he said, “he will come to within time, and come up to the scratch again. He has not got half his broth yet.”
“He has got all I mean to give him, though,” said his antagonist, whose heart began to relent towards his old associate; “and I would rather by half give the rest to yourself, Mr. Fleecebumpkin, for you pretend to know a thing or two, and Robin had not art enough even to peel before setting to, but fought with his plaid dangling about him Stand up, Robin, my man! All friends now; and let me hear the man that will speak a word against you, or your country, for your sake.”
Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his passion, and eager to renew the onset; but being withheld on the one side by the peacemaking Dame Heskett, and on the other, aware that Wakefield no longer meant to renew the combat, his fury sunk into gloomy sullenness.
“Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man,” said the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability of his country; “shake hands, and we will be better friends than ever.”
“Friends!” exclaimed Robin Oig with strong emphasis—”friends! Never. Look to yourself, Harry Waakfelt.”
“Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots stomach, as the man says in the play, and you may do your worst, and be d—d; for one man can say nothing more to another after a tussle, than that he is sorry for it.”
On these terms the friends parted. Robin Oig drew out, in silence, a piece of money, threw it on the table, and then left the alehouse. But turning at the door, he shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his forefinger upwards, in a manner which might imply either a threat or a caution. He then disappeared in the moonlight.
Some words passed after his departure, between the bailiff, who piqued himself on being a little of a bully, and Harry Wakefield, who, with generous inconsistency, was now not indisposed to begin a new combat in defence of Robin Oig’s reputation, “although he could not use his daddles like an Englishman, as it did not come natural to him.” But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel from coming to a head by her peremptory interference. “There should be no more fighting in her house,” she said; “there had been too much already
And you, Mr. Wakefield, may live to learn,” she added, “what it is to make a deadly enemy out of a good friend.”
“Pshaw, dame! Robin Oig is an honest fellow, and will never keep malice.”
“Do not trust to that; you do not know the dour temper of the Scots, though you have dealt with them so often. I have a right to know them, my mother being a Scot.”
“And so is well seen on her daughter,” said Ralph Heskett.
This nuptial sarcasm gave the discourse another turn. Fresh customers entered the taproom or kitchen, and others left it. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the report of prices from different parts both of Scotland and England. Treaties were commenced, and Harry Wakefield was lucky enough to find a chap for a part of his drove, and at a very considerable profit—an event of consequence more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the unpleasant scuffle in the earlier part of the day. But there remained one party from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped away by the possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.
This was Robin Oig M’Combich. “That I should have had no weapon,” he said, “and for the first time in my life! Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk. The dirk—ha! the English blood! My Muhme’s word! When did her word fall to the ground?”
The recollection of the fatal prophecy confirmed the deadly intention which instantly sprang up in his mind.
“Ha! Morrison cannot be many miles behind; and if it were an hundred, what then?”
His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and motive of action, and he turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which he knew, by Mr. Ireby’s report, that Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury—injury sustained from a friend; and by the desire of vengeance on one whom he now accounted his most bitter enemy. The treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion —of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But that hoard was pillaged—the idols which he had secretly worshipped had been desecrated and profaned. 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—nothing but revenge; and as the reflection added a galling spur to every step, he determined it should be as sudden and signal as the offence.
When Robin Oig left the door of the alehouse, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and him. The advance of the former was slow, limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle; the latter left behind him stubble-field and hedgerow, crag and dark heath, all glittering with frost-rime in the broad November moonlight, at the rate of six miles an hour. And now the distant lowing of Morrison’s cattle is heard; and now they are seen creeping like moles in size and slowness of motion on the broad face of the moor; and now he meets them—passes them, and stops their conductor.
“May good betide us,” said the Westlander. “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, put pe giving me the skene-dhu.”
“What! you are for back to the Highlands! The devil! Have you selt all off before the fair? This beats all for quick markets!”
“I have not sold—I am not going north—maype I will never go north again. Give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will pe words petween us.”
“Indeed, Robin, I’ll be better advised before I gie it back to you; it is a wanchancy weapon in a Highlandman’s hand, and I am thinking you will be about some harnsbreaking.”
“Prutt,