‘The Earl of Arran, of course!’ replied Mistress Alison, blushing through her tears. ‘It’s too late now, for their swords are out and their blood up, and the street full of the red-handed Hamiltons! What will I do? What will I do?’
Pending further measures, Mistress Alison covered her head with her mantle and cried piteously.
Bothwell smiled grimly in his beard when he heard the name of Arran. They were none of the best of friends, the Hepburns and the Hamiltons, at any time. To-night, the warden’s heart thrilled with a fierce pleasure at the thought of crossing swords with their chieftain’s son.
‘Draw, gentlemen,’ exclaimed Bothwell, putting himself at the head of the party. ‘A Hepburn! a Hepburn to the rescue! draw, and follow me!’
Thus shouting, he rushed to the stair-head, followed by his friends, who appeared, one and all, as ready for the fray as they had proved themselves for the feast.
The door had, indeed, been broken open, but the narrow entrance was still filled, and stoutly defended by the stalwart figure of the warden’s henchman. Though the odds were fearfully against him, his great strength and familiarity with his weapon had enabled him to make a gallant defence against the assailants, who were closing round him. At the first alarm (and the borderer’s quick ear had caught the step of armed men approaching, long before they came in sight) he had entreated Maxwell to return for the assistance of his comrades, who were sure to be found still carousing in Bothwell’s lodging. That gentleman used his own discretion in preferring to turn out the city-guard; but of this intention the other was ignorant. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ never doubted he could keep the door single-handed till assistance should arrive.
Thrust and blow and parry succeeded each other with fearful rapidity. The borderer was long of limb and in capital wind; moreover, his heart was as true as the steel in his hand; but three or four to one will beat the best of swordsmen, and he was overpowered at last, and driven back towards the stair.
At this crisis a desperate charge of fresh combatants, led by Bothwell from above, came opportunely to the rescue. It cleared the hall and the door, which was instantaneously closed and barred by the ready-witted serving-woman. Assailants and assailed now found themselves carrying on the combat in the street.
The skirmish became general. The Hamiltons mustered in force, and came swarming to the assistance of their kinsmen. Bothwell’s riders, too disturbed from their carouse, arrived by twos and threes, and the superiority of their arms and training made them formidable partisans. Inured, as all Scotchmen were in those days, to blows and bloodshed, strife was the natural element of the borderer, and, drunk or sober, he was always ready for a fight.