Reserving their fire until within a pike's length of King William's troops, the Highlanders poured upon them a deadly volley; and throwing down their muskets, drew their claymores, and, under cover of the smoke, charged with the fury of an avalanche, striking up the levelled bayonets with their studded targets, and hewing down with sword and axe, routed the Lowland soldiery in a moment. The brave Maclean cut the left wing to pieces; while Hastings' Englishmen, on the right, had equal fortune from the Camerons and Macdonalds. Dunbarton, at the head of sixteen mounted cavaliers, actually routed the whole artillery, and seized the cannon; while, led by Finland, the remainder of the troop broke among the dense and recoiling mass of Mackay's regiment, riding through it as easily as through a field of rye. King William's Dutch standard was captured by Walter Fenton, who, after a short conflict, drove his sword through the corslet of the bearer, and, spurning him with his foot and stirrup, bore off the trophy. Meanwhile Finland encountered a mounted cavalier, and had exchanged blows before he recognised Craigdarroch, his rival, in the leader of Annandale's Horse, whom his brave little band had now assailed, and with whom they were maintaining a desperate and unequal combat of one to five. "Surrender, Finland!" said Fergusson haughtily. "Have at thee, rebel!" cried his adversary, and by one blow struck his rapier to pieces. His sword was raised to cut down the now defenceless trooper, and end their rivalry for ever, but, animated by chivalric generosity, he spared him, and pressed further on the broken ranks of the enemy. Carrying aloft the Dutch banner, Walter Fenton rode towards Dundee, who was applauding Sir Evan Cameron of Locheil, and urging his clan yet further to advance. Dundee (whose panting horse was in the act of stooping to drink of a mountain runnel), with his eyes of fire turned to the disordered masses of Mackay, was brandishing his sword towards them, when a random bullet pierced his buff coat above the corslet, and buried itself in his shoulder under the left arm. The sword dropped from his hand; a deadly pallor overspread his beautiful features; he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen, but Walter supported him, and held before his eyes the yellow standard of the Statholder. "Now God be thanked, they fly!" said he, in a voice which showed how intense were the torments he endured; "you are a brave lad, Fenton--the dying hour of Claver'se is at hand, but he will not forget you. Meet me at the house of Urrard in an hour, if all goes well and I survive till then. Make my dutiful service to the noble Lord Dunbarton, and desire him to assume the command. Adieu;" and placing his hand on the orifice to staunch the blood, he rode over the field at a rapid trot.