'Of that,' said the proud Coila, drawing himself up and lowering his brows, 'our prince is the best judge.'
'These are pretty airs to give yourself, M'Crimman! One would think your claymore drank blood every morning!'
'Brother,' said M'Crimman, 'do not let us quarrel. I have orders to see your people on the march. They are to come with us. I must do my duty.'
'Never!' shouted Rae. 'Never shall my clan obey your commands!'
'You refuse to fight for Charlie?'
'Under your banner—yes!'
'Then draw, dog! Were you ten times more closely related to me, you should eat your words or drown them in your blood!'
Half an hour afterwards the M'Crimmans were on the march southwards, their bold young chief at their head, banners streaming and pibroch ringing! but, alas! their kinsman Rae lay stark and stiff on the bare hillside.
There and then was established the feud that lasted so long and so bitterly. Surrounded by her vassals and retainers, loud in their wailing for their departed chief, the widowed wife had thrown herself on the body of her husband in a paroxysm of wild, uncontrollable grief.
But nought could restore life and animation to that lowly form. The dead chief lay on his back, with face up-turned to the sky's blue, which his eyes seemed to pierce. His bonnet had fallen off, his long yellow hair floated on the grass, his hand yet grasped the great claymore, but his tartans were dyed with blood.