Unfortunate Douglas!
Something was clenched in his hand and pressed to his lips; but as his dying energies relaxed, and his brave spirit fled to heaven, the relic fell on the turf;—it was Annie Laurie's braid of bright brown hair.
"Farewell, dear Finland," exclaimed Walter, kissing the dead man's hand. "Here end thy love and misfortunes together!" Sorrow, rage, and ardour roused the fury of Fenton to the utmost, and with his clubbed weapon he sprang over the trees of the abbatis, exclaiming, "to the charge, gentlemen Scots!—to the charge! Never let it be said that the Cavaliers of Dundee played at long bowles with those false English churls. Victory and revenge!"
Fired by his example, and animated by national and political hatred against those who had deserted James VII., and wrought so many miseries to his few adherents, the little band sprang from the abbatis and threw themselves with incredible fury and determination on the dismounted troopers. Onward they pressed over piles of dead and wounded, while every instant the balls that flew thick as drifting rain, thinned their narrow ranks, and added many another item to the vast amount of that day's carnage.
None can be so brave as those for whom life has lost every charm; and none so reckless as those who have a thousand real or imaginary wrongs to avenge. Thus, heedless alike of the number of their antagonists, who were again pressing up to the attack, the Scottish Cavaliers came on pell mell, and a desperate conflict ensued with firelocks and fusils clubbed.
As Walter, forgetful of everything else but to glut a fierce spirit of revenge, pressed onward, he encountered a tall and powerful officer. The nobility of his aspect and the richness of his attire (for his scarlet coat was so richly interlaced with bars of gold as to be almost sword-proof) not less than the vigour with which he kept his soldiers to their duty, made him a marked man; but Walter struck him from his horse and flourished the butt of his musket over him.
"Take these, you tattered villain," said the officer, offering a splendid watch and ring; "take these and spare my life."
"Insult me not, Sir," exclaimed Walter Fenton with undisguised scorn. "I am one of the officers of Viscount Dundee—of Dundee the brave and loyal."
"The vilest minion of hell and tyranny that ever disgraced his country—then doubly are you traitor!" said the other starting from the ground and flashing a pistol in Walter's face. Blinded by fury and the smoke of the discharge, he drove his bayonet through the breast of the officer and fairly pinned him to the turf.
"Curse on the hour that I die by the hand of a base and renegade clown like thee!" exclaimed the dying man, half choked in his welling blood.