"Scaled all over like an armadillo, as we used to say at Tangier," added Dr. Joram. "Speed thee, Fenton, and shew the rebel villain small mercy."
Walter galloped within a few paces of his adversary, who had now reloaded his pistol. His powerful frame which exhibited great muscular strength, was cased in a corslet of bright steel, buff coat and gloves, and enormous jack boots, fenced by plates of iron; his head was defended by an iron cap covered with black velvet (a fashion of James VII.,) and was adorned by a single feather; he carried a long carbine and still longer broadsword. His hair was cut short, and his chin shaved close in the Dutch fashion. He levelled a pistol between his horse's ears with a long and deliberate aim at Walter, whose eye was fixed in painful acuteness upon the little black muzzle and stern grey eye that glared along the barrel.
He fired!
The ball grazed the cheek plate of Walter's morion. He never winced, but felt his heart tingle with rage and exultation, as in turn he levelled his long horse pistol at the Williamite trooper, who was reloading with the utmost coolness. Walter fired, and with a loud snort, a strange cry, and terrific bound, the strong Flemish horse of his adversary sank to the earth, and tore up the turf with its hoofs. Its brain had been pierced. The rider lost his pistol by the plunge, but adroitly disengaging himself from the twisted stirrups, high saddle, and convulsed legs of the fallen steed, he unsheathed his long sword, and brandished it, crying—
"Vive le Roi Guillaume! come on young coistrel!"
While the cheers of his comrades and a brisk ruffle on their drums made his heart leap within him, Walter sprang from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hab Elshender, drew his slender, cavalier rapier, and rushed to encounter his strong antagonist, but a glance sufficed to stay his forward step and upraised hand, and to lull the excitement of his spirit.
"Captain Napier!" he exclaimed, on recognizing beneath the dark head piece, the stern, unmoved, but not unhandsome features of Lilian's kinsman, and his rival.
"I told thee, Fenton, we would meet again," said Napier, coldly and sternly, "and I swore when that hour came to spare thee not. It hath come, so do unto me, as thou wilt be done by."
"For the sake of her whose name and blood you inherit in common, I would rather shun than encounter you. Your life—I spared it once."
"Why remind me of that?" said Napier, furiously, while his cheek reddened. "'Tis better to die than remember that the boldest heart of the Scots Brigade owes its existence to the favour of a beardless moppet like thee! bethink thee, man," continued Napier, sneeringly, "the entail—your sword can break it in a moment; Quentin Napier is the last of his race, and then Lilian becomes an heiress."