Mor and his sturdy lads from Camus, the breeder of soldiers—back through the gap and down on the brae to the walls of Calum Dubh.
“'Illean, 'illean!” cried Calum; “lads, lads! they have us, sure enough. Oh! pigs and thieves! squint mouths and sons of liars!”
The cry gathered up the strength of all that was left of his clan, Art and Uileam, the Maam lads, the brothers from Drimlea and two from over Stron hill, and they stood up together against the Carnus men—a gallant madness! They died fast and hard, and soon but Calum and his two sons were left fencing, till a rush of Diarmaids sent them through the door of the house and tossed among the peats.
“Give in and your lives are your own,” said Niall Mor, wiping his sword on his shirtsleeve, and with all that were left of his Diarmaids behind his back.
To their feet stood the three MacKellars.
Calum looked at the folk in front of him, and had mind of other ends to battles. “To die in a house like a rat were no great credit,” said he, and he threw his sword on the floor, where the blades of Art and Uileam soon joined it.
With tied arms the father and his sons were taken outside, where the air was full of the scents of birch and gall new-washed. The glen, clearing fast of mist, lay green and sweet for mile and mile, and far at its mouth the fat Blaranbuie woods chuckled in the sun.
“I have you now,” said Niall Mor. “Ye ken what we seek. It's the old ploy—the secret of the ale.”
Calum laughed in his face, and the two sons said things that cut like knives.
“Man! I'm feared ye'll rue this,” said Niall Mor, calm enough. “Ye may laugh, but—what would ye call a gentleman's death?”