"Be silent!" I thundered. "I am no Covenanter, but it would be good for Scotland if there were more such women as we drowned this morning, and fewer men with such foul hearts as yours."
It was an ill-judged place and time for such a speech, but I was on fire with anger. The halberdier rose to his feet, flung the contents of his tankard in my face, roared with laughter, and cried, "Tak' anither sup, hinny."
This was beyond endurance. With one leap I was upon him and hurled him to the ground. He fell with a crash; his head struck the flagged floor with a heavy thud, and he lay still. I had fallen with him, and as I rose I received a blow which flung me down again. In an instant, as though a match had been set to a keg of powder, the tavern was in an uproar. What but a moment before had been a personal conflict between myself and the halberdier had waxed into a general mêlée.
Some joined battle on my side, others were against me, and townsmen and troopers laid about them wildly with fists, beer-pots, and any other weapons to which they could lay their hands. The clean sanded floor became a mire of blood and tumbled ale, in which wallowed a tangle of cursing, fighting men.
Just when the fray was at its hottest the door of the kitchen was thrown open, and the sergeant of our troop stood in its shadow.
"What's this?" he shouted, and, as though by magic, the combat ceased.
None of us spoke, but the inn-keeper, finding speech at last, said: "A maist unseemly row, sergeant, begun by ane o' your ain men, wha wi' oot provocation felled ma frien' the halberdier wha lies yonder a'maist deid."
The sergeant strode to the body of the halberdier and dropped on his knees beside it.
"What lousy deevil has done this?" he cried.
"The Englishman," said the inn-keeper; "Nae Scotsman would ha'e felled sic a decent man unprovoked."