As Walter, forgetful of everything else but to glut a fierce spirit of revenge, pressed onward, he encountered a tall and powerful officer. The nobility of his aspect and the richness of his attire (for his scarlet coat was so richly interlaced with bars of gold as to be almost sword-proof) not less than the vigour with which he kept his soldiers to their duty, made him a marked man; but Walter struck him from his horse and flourished the butt of his musket over him. "Take these, you tattered villain," said the officer, offering a splendid watch and ring; "take these and spare my life." "Insult me not, Sir," exclaimed Walter Fenton with undisguised scorn. "I am one of the officers of Viscount Dundee--of Dundee the brave and loyal." "The vilest minion of hell and tyranny that ever disgraced his country--then doubly are you traitor!" said the other starting from the ground and flashing a pistol in Walter's face. Blinded by fury and the smoke of the discharge, he drove his bayonet through the breast of the officer and fairly pinned him to the turf. "Curse on the hour that I die by the hand of a base and renegade clown like thee!" exclaimed the dying man, half choked in his welling blood. "Traitor!" cried his destroyer furiously; "you die by the hand of Sir Walter Fenton, Knight Banneret of Scotland!" "So falls Hugh Mackay, of Scoury!" moaned the other as he sank backward and expired. "Scoury!" reiterated Walter; "hah! then this hour avenges Dundee the slaughter of Killycrankie and of Cromdale." At that moment he was hurled to the earth by a wounded charger as it rushed madly from the conflict. He fell against a tree and lay stunned and insensible to all that passed around him. The sun was setting, and still the doubtful battle continued to be waged with undiminished ardour, until Mareschal Boufflers, at the head of a powerful body of cavalry, the French and Scottish gendarmerie, and the royal regiment, De Rousillon, swept like a torrent over the corpse-strewn plains with the oriflamme, displayed and decided the fortune of the war just as the sun's broad disc dipped behind the far horizon. William, instead of restoring his tarnished honour, was compelled to retreat in renewed disgrace, leaving many officers of valour and distinction and 3,000 soldiers slain; while the French, though they had to regret the fall of an equal number, with the Prince de Turenne, the Marquis de Bellefonde, Tilladete, Fernaçon, and many other chevaliers of noble blood, remained masters of the field, over which they suspended from a lofty gibbet King William's luckless confidant, the spy and intriguer Millevoix.