His men came pouring out at the well-known cry. Stout troopers all of them, and armed besides to the teeth. There was nothing for it but a quick and determined resistance.
Dick spurred his horse without hesitation against the assailant on foot, dealing him at the same moment a heavy buffet with his gauntleted hand, for he had no time to draw his sword. Armstrong protected Maxwell’s other flank. There were several fierce oaths, a pistol-shot, a smothered groan, much trampling of hoofs, a plunge or two, and Maxwell found himself again careering along between his two defenders over the open plain at a pace that set pursuit at defiance.
‘Well out of that, Dick!’ said he cheerily, as they pulled their horses at last into a trot, and listened for the enemy who came not. ‘Well out of that! we’ll win the race and be home now before midnight, I expect. These are rare stuff, these Border nags of yours; it’s no wonder men should be tempted to steal such cattle as we are riding to-night!’
But Dick answered nothing, only he seemed to hold his horse in a rigid immovable grasp, and the three broke into a gallop even swifter than before. The moon was up now, riding clear and high in the mid-heaven. Was it only her light that made the borderer’s face so pale? Dick spoke at last in a thick, hoarse voice, and the others pulled up simultaneously as he did so.
‘I’ll light doun, I’m thinkin,’ said he. ‘Ride you on, Maister Maxwell! I’ll just bide where I am awee. It’s a kin’ o’ dwam[16]-like that’s come over me.’
[16] Dwam—a swoon.
He dismounted while he spoke. He was scarce clear of the saddle ere he staggered and fell heavily to the ground. Armstrong unbuckled his corslet and opened the buff jerkin beneath. It was light enough for Maxwell to see the little round mark that soldiers know so well. Large drops were standing on the borderer’s forehead, and his lips were turning white. Maxwell took his hand, and the dying man smiled a feeble, ghastly smile, as he returned the grasp.
‘I’ll no win back to Liddesdale,’ said he, faintly. ‘I’ll no get the length o’ Perth the nicht. I’ll be meat for the corbies[17] the morn. Gude speed ye, my canny lad! Pit yer foot intill the stirrup again. A Queen’s errans munna stan’ still for the like o’ me!’
[17] Corbies—crows.
Maxwell’s tears fell thick and fast. While Armstrong held the horses, he propped the borderer’s head upon his knee, and whispered a few broken words, he knew not what, of grief and hope, that seemed a mockery even then.