“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together. At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever them. “Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. “Your blood be on your ain heid then!” I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall; I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at each other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided being stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the midst of which I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before her father. In the same moment the point of my sword encountered some thing yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the girl’s kerchief, and stood sick. “Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after all!” she cried. “My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and went, and sat on a table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand. Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung suddenly about and faced him. “Begone!” was her word, “take your shame out of my sight; leave me with clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin, begone!” It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must have pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself to a bravado air. “Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on Alan, “if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—” “There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says Alan. “Sir!” cries James. “James More,” says Alan, “this lady daughter of yours is to marry my friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of harm’s way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits to my temper.” “Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James. “I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, “but now, ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James More, you leave this house.” James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it’s to be thought he had enough of Alan’s swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell in a series. With which he was gone. At the same time a spell was lifted from me. “Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much hurt?”