But instead of taking the main avenue, I darted sideways along the narrower path which led round the garden’s edge, and there, cowering in the angle, I waited for what should happen. In their hurry and surprise I heard one hackbutt go off with a crash, and the light from the touch lit up the garden. Then in the darkness that followed I ran further down the walk towards the outer gate. In the midst I came upon a fellow who kneeled with his musket upon a stick, trained upon the middle path by which they had hoped that Culzean would come. Then with my sword I stuck the hulking villain through that part of him with which I came most readily in contact. What that might be, I declare that I know not until this day. Only I judged that it could not have been a very mortal one, by the vigour with which he cried out. Then indeed there was confusion and deray to speak about. I saw the form of the Grey Man, whom I had observed directing the ambush, rise from the further dyke-side. He spoke sharply like one that cries orders, and at the word many men came rushing pell-mell to see what was the cause of the hideous outcry on that side of the garden where I was. But I overstepped the carcase of the rascal into whom I had set my good blade, and most circumspectly made my way down the side of the wall unseen of any. But when I had advanced as far as the way out by the single gate, my fate came, as it were, to the stern and deadly breach. For there were marksmen who had their pieces trained on that place. With my own eyes I had seen them set themselves in position. Nevertheless, the noise behind waxed so imminent that I drew a long breath, and sprang at the opening. As I went through, ten or twelve pieces at the least, both pistolets and hackbutts, were loosed off against me. I heard the bullets splash, splash all about my legs and body, and one that had bounded from the lintel of the door-post, dunted me on the breastplate, which it was a God’s mercy I had minded to wear. Yet for all I escaped wholly unscathed. Outside the gate there were two fellows that withstood me, and I had small time to ask whether they were friends or foes. So, to make siccar, I speered no catechisms of them, but only shot off my pistol into one of the thickest parts of one, setting the muzzle almost to his belt, and with yet more gladness gave the other a sound iron thrust in the shoulder. For all my life I have loved the point more than the edge—and a thousand times better than the powder and lead—which is an uncertain hit-or-miss thing at best. I cleared the yett, sprang through, and there I had it down the High Street of Maybole with the bullets spelking about me like hailstones, and chance night-wandering burghers scudding for their doors like conies on the sandy knowes.