The pipers struck up on both sides, as the two combatants engaged with claymore, dirk, and target; but in a few minutes the red blood spirted from the sword-arm of Rob Roy, who immediately lowered his blade, and said,—
"I congratulate you, Alaster of Invernahyle, on being one of the very few who have drawn blood from the veins of Rob Roy."
"Nay," said Stewart, as he offered his handkerchief to bind up the wound, "without the advantages which youth and its agility give me, I had come off with neither honour nor safety."
"I thank you, MacGregor," said Appin, "that your brave blood has alone been shed here to-day. Farewell!—we go back to the braes of Appin. If I survive you, this hand shall lay the first stone of your cairn and bid it speak to future times."
"To you, Appin, thanks! you must indeed survive me. The Red MacGregor is red only in name now—his hair is white as the snows on Ben Lomond."
This was his last appearance in arms.
Some time after this, in a trial of strength with Stewart of Ardsheil, finding his eyesight dim, his sword-arm weak, and that he was compelled to give ground, his cheek—a wrinkled cheek now—flushed red with shame; tears stood in his eyes, and he flung his old and faithful blade upon the heather.
"Never have I drawn thee without honour," he exclaimed; "but alas! never shall I draw thee more!"
Ardsheil, a generous and high-spirited gentleman, was deeply moved by the grief of the old warrior for his own decay of strength. Picking up the claymore, and presenting the hilt to Rob Roy, he politely raised his bonnet, and said,—
"Shame on me, shame that I should have drawn on years and bravery such as yours! But give me your hand, MacGregor—your hand, and henceforth let us be friends."