“Leslie for ever!” yelled out Owen, with a voice heard over every part of the field; and with a spring into the air, and a wild flourish of his stick, he dashed into the crowd.
“Here's Owen Connor, make way for Owen;” cried the non-combatants, as they jostled and parted each other, to leave a free passage for one whose prowess was well known.
“He'll lave his mark on some of yez yet!” “That's the boy will give you music to dance to!” “Take that, Barney!” “Ha! Terry, that made your nob ring like a forty-shilling pot!” Such and such-like were the comments on him who now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the very midst of the combatants, and fought' his way onwards to where some seven or eight were desperately engaged over the fallen figure of a man. With a shrill yell no Indian could surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owen came down in the midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorn telling on his man as unerringly as though it were wielded by the hand of a giant.
“Save the young Master, Owen! Shelter him! Stand over him, Owen Connor!” were how the cries from all sides; and the stout-hearted peasant, striding over the body of young Leslie, cleared a space around him, and, as he glanced defiance on all sides, called out, “Is that your courage, to beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his life? Oh, you cowardly set! Come and face the men of your own barony if you dare! Come out on the green and do it!—Pull him away—pull him away quick,” whispered he to his own party eagerly. “Tear-an-ages! get him out of this before they're down on me.”
As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their party now trebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down with a force that nothing could resist. Poor Owen—the mark for every weapon—fell almost the first, his head and face one undistinguishable mass of blood and bruises, but not before some three or four of his friends had rescued young Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts of the fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was impossible, and self-defence almost suggested some participation in the battle. The victory was, however, with the Joyces. They were on their own territory; they mustered every moment stronger; and in less than half an hour they had swept the enemy from the field, save where a lingering wounded man remained, whose maimed and crippled condition had already removed him from all the animosities of combat.
“Where's the young master?” were the first words Owen Connor spoke, as his friends carried him on the door of a cabin, hastily unhinged for the purpose, towards his home.
“Erra! he's safe enough, Owen,” said one of his bearers, who was by no means pleased that Mr. Leslie had made the best of his way out of the fair, instead of remaining to see the fight out.
“God be praised for that same, anyhow!” said Owen piously. “His life was not worth a 'trawneen' when I seen him first.”