At this the worthy man looked grave. "Go back to your place," he said, "and it shall be seen to. I am wae that the folk of this town, who have the benefit of my ministrations, set no better example to puir heathen Egyptians. But give up the quarrel at my bidding. 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay,' saith the Lord."
"But haply, sir," said I, "as Augustine saith, we may be the Lord's executors." And with this we turned and rode off, leaving the man staring in open-mouthed wonder.
CHAPTER XVII
OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR
When we came to the camping-place it was almost deserted. The people had all gone to the fair, and nothing was to be seen save the baggage and the children. The morning had grown wilder and a thin snow was falling, the earnest of a storm. The mist was drawing closer and creeping over the boglands. I minded an old saying of Tam Todd's, "Rouk's snaw's wraith," and I looked for a wild storm with gladness, for it would keep the dragoon gentry at home and prohibit their ill-doing.
But just in front at the border of the fog and at the extremity of the dry land, the captain saw something which made him draw up his horse sharply and stare. Then he turned to Matthew, and I saw that his face was flushed. "Ride a' your pith, man," he said, "ride like the wind to the toun, and bid our folk hurry back. Nae words and be off." And the obedient son galloped away to do his bidding.
He gripped me by the arm and pulled me to the side. "Ye've guid een," he said. "D'ye see that ower by the laigh trees?" I looked and looked again and saw nothing.
"Maybe no," he said, "ye haena gipsy een; but in half an' oor we'll a' ken what it means. It's the Ruthvens wi' the Yerl o' Hell. I ken by their red-stripit breeks and their lang scythe-sticks. Ye maun ken that for lang we've had a bluid-feud wi' that clan, for the Baillies are aye gentrice and hae nae trokins wi' sic blaggard tinklers. We've focht them yince and twice and aye gotten the better, and noo I hear that little Will Ruthven, that's him that they ca' the Yerl o' Hell for his deevilry, has sworn to fecht us till there's no a Baillie left to keep up the name. And noo they've come. 'Faith there'll be guid bluid spilt afore thae wratches learn their lesson."
The news struck me with vast astonishment and a little dismay. I had often longed to see a battle and now I was to be gratified. But what a battle! A fight between two bloodthirsty gipsy clans, both as wild as peat-reek, and armed with no more becoming weapons than bludgeons, cutlasses, and scythe-blades. More, the event would place me in a hard position. I could not fight. It would be too absurd for words that I should be mixed up in their mellays. But the man at my side expected me to aid him. I owed my life to him, and with these folk gratitude is reckoned one of the first of the virtues. To refuse William Baillie my help would be to offer him the deepest unkindness. Yet I dismissed the thought at once as preposterous. I could no more join the fight than I could engage in a pothouse or stable brawl. There was nothing for it but to keep back and watch the thing as a silent spectator.
In a little I began to see the band. It would number, as I guessed, some hundred and ten, with women and children. The captain, as he looked, grew fierce with excitement. His dark eyes blazed, and his brow and cheeks were crimson. Ever and anon he looked anxiously in the direction of the town, waiting for the help which was to come. As the foe came nearer he began to point me out the leaders. "There's Muckle Will," he cried, "him wi' the lang bare shanks, like the trams o' a cairt. He's the strongest and langest man frae the Forth to Berwick. My God, but it'll be a braw fellow that can stand afore him. And there's Kennedy himsel', that sonsy licht-coloured man. They say he's the best wi' the sma'-sword in a' Nithsdale, but 'faith, he's me to reckon wi' the day. And there's that bluidy deil, Jean Ruthven, whae wad fecht ony man in braid Scotland for a pund o' 'oo'. She's as guid as a man, and they say has been the death o' mair folk than the Yerl himsel'. But here come our ain men. Come on, Rob and Wat, and you, Mathy, gang wide to the right wi' some. It's a great day this. Nae wee cock-fecht, but a muckle lang deidly battle." And the man's face was filled with fierce joy.