“The wood’s wet,” he muttered, “and be damned to the fools that gathered it.”
“Aye, wet with blood,” shrilled Donald.
With that, strength came to him. His glance, roving again about the walls, found the thing he sought. With speed incredible he leaped to get the pike into his hands—the pike that had gone to Flodden and returned.
He swung it gently to and fro for one swift moment, as if he doubted which of its three blades to ply. Then, with a Gaelic battle-shout, he leaped forward, through and over the fire’s reek, whirling the axe-edge high above his old, grey head.
Long Murgatroyd got his skull away from the blow; but the axe clove his shoulder till it gritted on the bone.
“I’m done, lads,” he growled, swaying to his fall. “Get about this madman risen from the dead.”
No voice answered him. The Garsykes Men had gone the way they came taking still dread for company. Alone with one who whirled his axe to strike again, Murgatroyd gathered what strength was left him, and ran screaming out into the night.
A great light shone in Donald’s face. There was strength in his body still, and a pibroch in his soul; and, when Causleen ran to him across the dwindling fire, he turned happily.
“It was so they fought in the old days gone. I’m glad you saw me make an end that way.”
He toyed with the pike lovingly. He praised Logie for keeping its edges grouted and sharp through the centuries for this night’s work of his. Then his strength fell away, a borrowed joy. The pike dropped from his grasp, clattering into the embers that Hardcastle was stamping out.