At last, I know not how, I found my way to the very front rank. I had been down often, and blood was flowing freely from little flesh wounds, but as yet I was unscathed. There I saw William Baillie laying about him manfully, though sore wounded in the shoulder. When he saw me he gave me a cry of welcome. "Come on," he cried, "I kenned ye wad think better o’t. We’ve muckle need o’ a guid man the noo." And he spoke truth, for anything more fierce and awesome than the enemy I have never seen. The Earl of Hell was mangled almost to death, especially in the legs and thighs. The flesh was clean cut from the bone of one of his legs, and hung down over the ankles, till a man grew sick at the sight. But he was whole compared with his daughter, Jean Ruthven, who was the chief’s wife. Above and below her bare breasts she was cut to the bone, and so deep were the gashes that the movement of her lungs, as she breathed, showed between the ribs. The look of the thing made me ill with horror. I felt giddy, and almost swooned; and yet, though white as death, she fought as undauntedly as ever. I shunned the sight, and strove to engage her husband alone, the great fair-haired man, who, with no weapon but a broken cutlass, had cleared all around him. I thrust at him once and again and could get no nearer for the swing of his mighty arms. Then the press behind, caused I suppose by the Ruthvens at the back, drove me forward, and there was nothing for it but to grapple with him. Our weapons were forced from our hands in the throng, and, with desperate energy, we clutched one another. I leaped and gripped him by the neck, and the next instant we were both down, and a great, suffocating wave of men pressed over us. I felt my breath stop, and yet I kept my grip and drew him closer. All was blackness around, and even as I clutched I felt a sharp thrill of agony through my frame, which seemed to tear the life from my heart, and I was lost to all. CHAPTER XVIII SMITWOOD That I am alive to this day and fit to write this tale, I owe to William Baillie. He saw me fall and the press close over me, and, though hard beset himself, he made one effort for my salvation. "Mathy," he cried, "and Tam and Andra, look after your man and get him up," and then once more he was at death-grips. They obeyed his bidding as well as they might, and made a little ring in the centre around me, defending me with their weapons. Then they entwined us and lifted me, senseless as I was, to the light and air. As for Kennedy, he was heavy and florid, and his life had gone from him at the first overthrow.