But, to the astonishment of all, the old man suddenly sprang up, clapped his hand to his side, and whirled out his claymore from its sheath.
“Fecht, laddies, fecht!” he yelled, as he waved the flashing blade above his head. “Doon wi’ t’ enemies o’ ta Mackhai!”
Uttering these last words as if they were a war-cry, he dashed at the bailiff, who stared wildly at the weird-looking old Highlander for a moment, and then, with his men, he turned and fled, the whole party retreating as hard as they could go.
“Hurray!” shouted Kenneth, and a burst of cheers followed, all shouting frantically as they saw old Tonal’ in full pursuit.
Full pursuit?
He only went about half a dozen yards; then he limped, then he stopped short, and then he turned slowly, making his sword a walking-stick, as the gates were thrown open, and the dogs dashed out, barking savagely, and took up the pursuit, adding wings to the flight of the bailiffs men. These ran the harder as they saw the light cavalry let loose, in the shape of Bruce, followed at a distance by the heavies, as represented by Dirk, who could not go so fast, and with the infantry in support in the ragged person of Sneeshing, who hindered his advance by keeping on firing shots.
The rest of the garrison poured forth, led by Kenneth, closely followed by Max and Scood, the former running up to old Donald, who came limping on.
“Are you much hurt, old man?” cried Kenneth, taking one arm.
“Ta togs! I’d ha’ slit the weam o’ ivery ane!” panted the piper.
“But are you much hurt? Anything broken?”