"Ay; but the beasties belong to the MacGregors——"
"From whom all men may take their prey," added another.
"True, MacAulay, and were they Breadalbane's own, every hoof and horn should be mine, even though he were here, with all the Clan Diarmed of the Boar at his back. Hear you that, my little man? But the Griogarich—wheeugh!"
And the tall cateran snapped his fingers with contempt and grinned savagely, as he made a whistling sound.
This action, and the slighting manner in which his clan was spoken of, made Colin tremble with rage. His ruddy cheek grew pale with emotion, and his eyes flashed with light.
In pursuing a sturdy little bullock, one of the MacRaes dropped a pistol. Quick as lightning young Colin sprang forward, possessed himself of it, and fired full at the head of Duncan nan Creagh! The latter reeled, for the ball had pierced his bonnet, and grazed the scalp of his head, causing the blood to trickle over his sombre visage. Then, before he could recover himself, the fearless boy hurled the empty pistol, which was one of the heavy steel tacks still worn with the Highland dress, at the cateran's head, which it narrowly missed.
Oina and he now turned to seek safety in flight; but the MacRae caught him by the hook of his long poleaxe, and fearing further violence, the brave Colin clung to his right arm with fierce energy. Duncan tried to shake him off; but in vain. At last, he fiercely bit the hand of the poor boy, who relinquished his hold with a scream of pain.
At that moment the savage fellow exclaimed,—
"Wasp of a MacGregor, that will take the sting out of you," and cut down Colin, by a single stroke of his ponderous axe, severing his right (some say his left) arm from his body.
Without a moan, Colin fell on the heather in a pool of blood.