But the combat ended not here. The mule still struggled with his adversary, which not only kept his ground, but rather began to force the mule to give way. But the inveterate mongrel was not to be vanquished in that way. He pressed, struggled, and wrought himself round, till he got his tail to the horse's shoulder, and then he attacked him furiously with his iron-heels. The horse being a horse of spirit, and scorning to yield to his long-eared adversary, applied the same offensive weapons with very little ceremony, wincing and screaming all the while, and sometimes making his feet to fly as high as the friar's elbows. The mule fought with desperate energy, but in profound silence. Not so the rider; he spurred, struck with his sword, and cried with a loud voice, "Soh! tproo! thou beast of the pit! sure the spirit of the evil one is in thee! Lo, I shall be beaten to pieces, for the heels of the horses are lifted up against me. By the life of Pharaoh, I will smite thee until thy blood shall be poured out like water,—thou perverse and abominable beast! I say unto thee go forward!"
The voice of the friar, during this passionate declamation, had arisen gradually until the last sentence, which was pronounced in his utmost stile of vehemence. The mule heard this, and saw the uplifted sword; and not awaiting its descent, he sprang forward with main force, but no man will guess the issue.
It may well be conceived, that during this desperate combat between the horse and mule, the onlookers were convulsed with laughter. Charlie Scott, in particular, laughed with a "Ha-ha-ha!" so loud that he made all the woods around to ring, and at every breath exclaimed, "Gude faith, I never saw ought half so grand! Na, never!" Gibbie was advanced a little before the rest, so as to be near the scene of action, which, without doubt, was bringing him in mind of some excellent story, for his mouth was formed like a seam from the one ear to the other. But it is dangerous putting one's self too forward in life, and that the poor laird of the Peatstacknowe soon found. It is well known that between parties so closely connected as the horse and his rider, passion begets passion. The mule, driven altogether furious by the broil, and the rage and spurs of his master, either wished to rub himself rid of him, or deemed that it was to be a battle general; for he no sooner rushed from one fray than he flew to another, quite open-mouthed on Gibbie, and, seizing him by the thigh, he separated one limb of his buffskin breeches and a mouthful of the laird's own skin from their places, in one moment, and the next had his teeth fixed in the flank of the laird's horse. Gibbie cried out against the friar, irritated by pain, as well as the awkward and dangerous situation in which he was thus momently placed. His horse flung—the mule returned the compliment with hearty good will, and glad was Gibbie to escape, which he did with great celerity as soon as he got leisure to use the spurs. The mule ran straight at the next horse, and then at the next again, but all of them scampered off at his approach, and left him master of the field; on which he turned two or three times sullenly round, throwing himself up behind and down before. The friar's wrath was somewhat diverted by the shouts of laughter from his scattered compeers, and he only smiled grimly as he said to his contumacious beast,—"Thou art even a perverse and an evil one; nevertheless thou hast been to me a beast for these many years, and hast borne me in distant pilgrimages, through many perils and dangers; and I will not act the part of the son of Bosor: peradventure thou mayest amend thy ways and do some credit to old age."
The laird in his escape gallopped by the forlorn poet; who, raising up his head, and perceiving the plight of the dismayed and unoffensive wight, scouring off with the one thigh naked and bleeding, burst out into a hysteric giggle between laughing and crying, and repeated some scraps of old rhyme no way connected with the incident. The attention of the party was now turned to him, and the friar's as much as any, who enquired with great simplicity, "My brother, why was thine arm lifted up against me?"
The bard was dreadfully abashed, and out of countenance; and he only answered in rhymes, of which none of them could make any thing:
"His arm was strong, and his heart was stout,
And he broke the tower and he got out;
Then the king he was an angry man,
And an angry man was he,
And he said, "Go, lock him in prison strong,
And hunger him till he dee.
"That was a hard weird, was it not? Ha-ha! there be many such; for
"He had his wale of seven sisters,
Of lith, and lire, and limb so fair;
But the loathly dame of the Hazelrig,
She ruined his peace for evermair."
"Lo, my son," answered the friar, "thy thoughts are wandering in a wilderness. I only ask thee wherein I have offended thee. For as mine hand is, so is mine heart; and, as my soul liveth, I know not in what respect I have done thee wrong."
"I have not done thee wrong, fair May,
I have not done thee wrong,
But the cup of death has passed my lips,
And my life will not be long.