The wicked steel twined and glittered in the moonlight. As they warmed to their work each man grew more eager and more deadly in the murderous game; thrust and parry, give and take, delicate feint and desperate return, were rapidly and breathlessly exchanged, but at the end of a few passes, though neither had gained any advantage, Maxwell’s youth and activity began to tell upon his elder antagonist. Already the stranger’s brow was covered with sweat, and his breath came quick and short as he traversed here and there, and began perceptibly to give ground. With the true instinct of a swordsman, Maxwell pressed him vigorously when he began to fail, and was in the act of delivering a long-meditated and particularly fatal thrust, when he suddenly found his own blade encumbered with a woollen plaid that had been thrown over it, and himself at the mercy of his antagonist. Looking wildly up, he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Mary Carmichael’s pale face frowning angrily upon him, while she clung fondly and imploringly on the stranger’s sword-arm, effectually preventing the latter from availing himself, even were he so minded, of the diversion she had so made. Stunned and stupefied, with his mouth open and his sword point resting on the ground, Maxwell stood like a man in a dream. Presently his face contracted with an expression of intense pain as he saw Mary once more enveloped in his rival’s embrace, and heard her incoherent expressions of tenderness and alarm. The stranger was soothing her gently and lovingly as a burst of weeping succeeded the effort she had made for his preservation. After a while he turned to his late antagonist, and said-- ‘You are satisfied now, sir, I presume, and have no wish to renew this foolish and untimely brawl.’ But Maxwell never heard him; with pale face and parted lips, his eyes were still riveted on Mary Carmichael. He advanced a step towards her, trembling in every limb. ‘You love him, then?’ said he, quite gently; but his voice was so changed that the stranger started and turned round, thinking some intruder had disturbed them. ‘I do! I do!’ replied the girl hysterically, still hiding her face on the breast to which she clung. Maxwell smiled--such a dreary, hopeless smile! then sheathing his sword, turned and walked slowly towards the Palace without another word. CHAPTER XXVIII. ‘I send him the rings from my white fingers; The garlands aff my hair; I send him the heart that’s in my breast; What would my love hae mair? And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, Ye’ll bid him meet me there.’