Robert Grant was at home that day, suffering from rheumatism. He was seated in the ingle-neuk, with his pipe in his mouth, and Janet was just taking the potatoes for their dinner off the fire, when the door flew open, and in stumbled Gibbie, and fell on the floor. The old man threw his pipe from him, and rose trembling, but Janet was before him. She dropt down on her knees beside the boy, and put her arm under his head. He was white and motionless.
“Eh, Robert Grant!” she cried, “he’s bleedin’.”
The same moment they heard quick yet heavy steps approaching. At once Robert divined the truth, and a great wrath banished rheumatism and age together. Like a boy he sprang to the crap o’ the wa’, whence his yet powerful hand came back armed with a huge rusty old broad-sword that had seen service in its day. Two or three fierce tugs at the hilt proving the blade immovable in the sheath, and the steps being now almost at the door, he clubbed the weapon, grasping it by the sheathed blade, and holding it with the edge downward, so that the blow he meant to deal should fall from the round of the basket hilt. As he heaved it aloft, the gray old shepherd seemed inspired by the god of battles; the rage of a hundred ancestors was welling up in his peaceful breast. His red eye flashed, and the few hairs that were left him stood erect on his head like the mane of a roused lion. Ere Angus had his second foot over the threshold, down came the helmet-like hilt with a dull crash on his head, and he staggered against the wall.
“Tak ye that, Angus MacPholp!” panted Robert through his clenched teeth, following the blow with another from his fist, that prostrated the enemy. Again he heaved his weapon, and standing over him where he lay, more than half-stunned, said in a hoarse voice,
“By the great God my maker, Angus MacPholp, gien ye seek to rise, I’ll come doon on ye again as ye lie!—Here, Oscar!—He’s no ane to haud ony fair play wi’, mair nor a brute beast.—Watch him, Oscar, and tak him by the thro’t gien he muv a finger.”
The gun had dropped from Angus’s hand, and Robert, keeping his eye on him, secured it.
“She’s lodd,” muttered Angus.
“Lie still than,” returned Robert, pointing the weapon at his head.
“It’ll be murder,” said Angus, and made a movement to lay hold of the barrel.
“Haud him doon, Oscar,” cried Robert. The dog’s paws were instantly on his chest, and his teeth grinning within an inch of his face. Angus vowed in his heart he would kill the beast on the first chance. “It wad be but blude for blude, Angus MacPholp,” he went on. “Yer hoor’s come, my man. That bairn’s is no the first blude o’ man ye hae shed, an’ it’s time the Scripture was fulfillt, an’ the han’ o’ man shed yours.”