"Ian Mion Mac an Abba," replied the eldest son of Aileen, with a smile of scorn and triumph.
"Smooth John of the accursed race, in the island of the Neishes! What seek you, caitiff?"
"A just vengeance; so come on thou false cateran, or yield."
"MacNeish yields to the hand of the blessed God only; but never to a MacNab of woman born!" replied the aged Finlay, with that air of supreme grandeur which the old Celtic warriors could at times assume. "Up, up to arms!" he added to his people; but wine, weariness, and slumber heavily sealed their eyes, and he found neither response nor succour, while he and Ian met hand to hand.
Their swords crossed, and by the light of the bog-wood fire, their wild eyes glared into each other's faces; and while blade pressed and rasped against blade, ere they struck or thrust, MacNeish said,—
"I am old, and thou, John MacNab, art lithe and young. If I fall, for the sake of our blessed Lady of Pity have mercy on my child—my little Muriel; other boon than this have I none to ask."
"She shall have such mercy as brave men ever accord to women and children," replied MacNab.
"I thank you, Ian Mion——"
"But for thee, there is——"
"Only death. I know it—so come on! It may be that I shall die, yet I care not, if I can redeem my old life by having the best life among ye—ye sons of a misbegotten cur!"