“You hear me, sir!” cried the bailiff. “You struck the first blow.”
“You lie, you bun-faced Southroner!” cried Kenneth. “You made the first blow in that old pocket-handkerchief.”
“Will you surrender?”
“No!”
“Then come on, my lads. Forward!”
“Hurray! hurray!” shouted Ken, pointing upwards; and the bailiff and his men stopped and stared with open mouths at the scene.
“Look, Max! Look, Scoody! Hurray! Mackhai! Mackhai!”
A shrill, piercing, cracked old voice echoed the cry from above, and the lads on the crumbling battlements over the gateway, where they stood ready with pails of water for sending down through the machicolations, stood gazing at a tall weird figure in full war-paint, with the front of his bonnet cocked up with its eagle pinion feathers, his grey hair flying in the breeze, his eyes flashing, tartan scarf buckled with his great cairngorm brooch, as old Tonal’ climbed slowly into sight, and stood on the narrow ledge of battlement at the very top of the right-hand tower.
“Ta Mackhai!” he yelled. “Ta Mackhai!” and, as he stood there, with scarf and kilt fluttering about his tall, lean old figure, he looked like one of the ancient fighting men of the clan come back from the Middle Ages to battle in defence of his chief.
“Ta Mackhai! Ta Mackhai!” he yelled again, in answer to a tremendous cheer from the party within.