“Good!” nodded Sir Hector, beginning in his most pedantic English: “Pray carry him my compliments and inform him, on my behalf, that should he experience the burning need of a little gentlemanly satisfaction, Sir Hector MacLean will be happy to meet him at any time, anywhere, with broadsword or rapier, pistol, dirk, or half-pike, right hand or left, to suit his own convenience, and ... aye, an’ damn him intae the bargain for a scoondrel, whateffer! An’ noo, tak’ ye’sels hence—awa’ wi’ ye or I’ll be crackin’ y’r twa thick heids taegither.”
Thus stood Sir Hector, indeed a very Hector, Achilles and Ajax rolled into one, his two captives still in durance, his brow a little sad as he watched the enemy’s retreat. Then, becoming aware of his helpless prisoners, he loosed them and patted each dazed fellow upon tousled crown.
“Losh,” quoth he, “I fair disremembered ye! Rin awa’, laddies, rin awa’ an’ dinna forget Hector Lauchlan MacLean.”
And now it was that he felt a touch upon his arm and, turning, came face to face with my lady.
“Save ’s a’,” he exclaimed, “’tis Rose!”
“Herself, dear Sir Hector!” she answered and, smiling, reached him both her hands. But instead of clasping them, he clapped his own to his wigless head and stood utterly discomfited and abashed.
“Hoot-toot,” quoth he, “I’m no’ a fit sicht for a lassie’s een—look awa’, Rose, look awa’! Rab!” he roared, “O Rabbie-man, bring me ma wig. Rin, laddie, rin!”
“Here, sir!” answered Robert, stepping from the shadow of the hedge with the object in question, which Sir Hector snatched and donned hastily; then, facing about, he bowed ceremoniously.
“Rose,” said he, “I rejoice to see thee safe back.”
“O Sir Hector,” cried she, reaching him her hands again, “thou’rt indeed a man ’tis joy to see, a man of action, of deeds not words—and marvellous strong. You fight as if you loved it!”