“Well, there has been a fight, father. I don’t know about desperate.”
“Not desperate, sir! when I found two men on the road, one bruised and battered about so that he can’t see out of his eyes, and his face all blood-smeared, while the other is lamed, and can hardly walk.”
“Well, sir,” said Kenneth boldly, “a pack of scoundrels came here with a cock-and-bull story about taking possession of Dunroe; and as you were out, and I knew it must be some trick, I called our people together, shut the gates, set them at defiance, and—there was a fight, and we beat ’em off.”
A flush of pride came across The Mackhai’s face, and a bright look fell upon his son, but they passed away directly, and he continued, with lowering brow.
“And you have done this, sir?” he said sternly; “and you,” he added, turning sharply upon Max,—“you knew better than this stupid country boor of a boy. Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I did not think of doing so, sir,” said Max, hesitating; and then, speaking out firmly, “I helped him, and did my best to beat the people off. I’m afraid I was worse than he.”
“What?” cried The Mackhai; “you did?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
The Mackhai burst into a wild, discordant laugh.
“You did?” he repeated mockingly. “You helped to beat off these scoundrels of the law?”