“You be a fine piece, I’ll allow, mistress, aye—fit for a lord or a dook ye be, but your handsome looks won’t——” Here, suddenly espying the nature of the weapon she held, he shrank and cowered away. “’Ware of her, Sturton!” he cried, but all too late, for with a graceful sweep of her long arm she swung the large pitcher she had hitherto kept hidden, discharging its boiling contents over the huddled crowd in a streaming deluge, whereupon arose screams, curses, groans, a very pandemonium, as these men, who had fronted Sir John’s pistols, retreated in wild confusion. Reaching the road, they halted to stamp and swear, while Mr. Oxham roared threats and cherished scalded face, and Sturton, cursing all and sundry, cried shame on them to “be beat by a damned slip o’ shrewish womanhood!” to such effect that they were presently back again more viciously threatening than ever, though keeping well away from the tall young Amazon who stood with pitcher recharged and the light of battle in her eyes, strung for action, yet supremely disdainful of them, one and all. So was a momentary respite, for the men, uncertain and a little shamefaced, hung back, despite Sturton’s lashing tongue and Oxham’s bellowing. And then arose warning shouts from their fellows who guarded the roadway, a clatter of horse-hoofs and sounds of sudden strife, whereupon Oxham’s men hastened to join the fray. Thus the turmoil grew, while up rose a swirling cloud of dust wherein men strove hand to hand, a fierce hurly-burly whence ever and anon was heard a wild, eldritch screech of exultation. Suddenly, high above the reeling press, two legs appeared, very helpless legs that writhed and contorted themselves in desperate but futile kickings ere they vanished. Then the close-locked fray was split asunder, and through the seething dust a gigantic form appeared, with a man clutched helpless beneath each mighty arm, and who paused to glare round about and note the havoc he had wrought upon his bruised and dismayed assailants, and to vent another fierce screech of triumph ere he became articulate. “Ye fules!” he roared. “Dinna anger me—dinna rouse the auld Adam in me or mebbe I’ll be hurtin’ some o’ ye!” Thus stood Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean, the very incarnation of strife, hatless and wigless, his clothes rent and torn, his wretched captives struggling vainly in the grasp of his arms, his lean face flushed with the ecstasy of the moment. “Wha’ stays a MacLean meets the de’il!” quoth he. “An’ here’s MacLean the noo, an’ whaur’s the man tae gainsay him? You, Oxham-laddie, an’ you, Sturton, is it battle and bluidshed ye’re wantin’? If aye, speak the worrd. If no’, get ye oot o’ Dame Haryott’s but-an’-ben, an’ quick aboot it, for I’m fair yearnin’ for a wee mair tulzie-mulzie, y’ ken!” “We’ve no quarrel wi’ you, Sir Hector,” answered Mr. Oxham sullenly.