Part 21 (2/2)

”Ou ay, Ronald, I was chust thinking of the old ploys--I see you have strangers with you.”

Then he turned to Bryde--

”You will be a stronger man than your father, and he wa.s.s a fine man, but you would kill a man too. Yes, but we will not be talking of killing when it's the la.s.sies you will be thinking about, and I'm hearing the southern leddy is very chief with you,” and he sn.i.g.g.e.red and went out.

”G.o.d's blood,” said Hugh in a white rage, ”do you let any drunken rogue blackguard a lady?”

”I am not to be touching that man,” said Bryde, and his face was dark red.

”Have I to live to see one of my name a coward--a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and a coward?”

”By the living G.o.d, you lie, Hugh McBride,” said Bryde through his teeth, and struck Hugh on the mouth with the back of his hand.

”That will be all that is needful,” says Hugh with a bow; ”there's a yard outside, and maybe McKelvie will be giving us a couple of lanthorns.”

Never a word said Bryde, but the breath whistled through his nostrils, and we made our way through the kitchen, for it was easier to stop the big burn in spate than these two. There were cutla.s.ses on the wall crossed like the sign of a battle on a map, and Hugh had them down.

”I think they are marrows,” says he, trying to be calm, but his very voice shook with rage.

”Outside,” said Bryde.

There was a puddly yard, squelched with the feet of cow beasts. The scad of light from the door and the two lanterns lit up the yellow trampled glaur, and both the boys stripped in silence and stood on guard, and then started.

McGilp and McKinnon and the McKelvies were there only, and if these had not been my own boys I could have enjoyed the business, for they were matched to a hair, and tireless as tigers.

The blue blades sprang from cut to parry like live things, and in the light I saw the same cruel smile, line for line, in both faces. The snow was falling in big wet flakes, and the fight went on, neither giving an inch, and then from behind came a thin voice--

”The McBrides are at it, hammer and tongs--the Laird and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, te-he,” cried Dol Beag from the dark.

At that word Bryde's blade seemed to waver an instant, and Hugh's bit into his thigh, but like a flash I saw Bryde recover, and a lightning stroke and Hugh's cutla.s.s was clattering on the cobbles, and then I saw Bryde whirl his sword round his head, and raise himself uplifted for a dreadful blow that would have cleft his cousin to the chest, and the cruel smile was still on both faces, and then Bryde stopped.

”It's no' true, Hughie,” said he, and lowered his hand and walked back to the kitchen, swayed a minute, and thrust his arms out blindly, and fell on the flagstones.

”Have I killed him, Hamish?” cried Hugh--”have I killed Bryde? G.o.d, what will Margaret say to this?”

”I do not know what you have done,” said I. ”It would be maybe better if he is dead, for I think you will have killed his spirit.”

We would have had him to bed in the inn, but he came to himself.

”Hamish,” said he, ”take me home to my”--and in a brave voice--”to my mother.”

And Hugh went out of the room, and I knew he would never be a boy again.

McKelvie's wife was at the doctoring of the wound with her concoctions, and I made what job I could of it, and then we put Bryde in a peat creel, with straw and blankets, and took him to his mother.

”It was just a daft prank,” said he to Belle, who leant over him like some wild fierce creature. ”It was just a mad ploy, mother.”

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