“Hark again,” cried Sang; “by all that is good, they will be in on us in the twinkling of an eye.”
“Let’s out on them, then, without further talk,” cried Rory, brandishing his battle-axe. “Troth, I wad maybe hae had mair mercy on them an they had gi’en us but time for ae ither stoup; but as it is, let’s at them, my friends, and let them take care o’ their heads.” [[445]]
“Pay for the supper and yill, Master Spears,” cried Mrs. MacCleareye, thrusting herself forward.
“This is no time, woman, to settle sike affairs,” cried Rory.
“Better now, I trow, than after thou art amortized by the sword o’ some Southron thrust through thy stomach, Master Spears,” said Mrs. MacCleareye. “Pay to-day, I pray thee, and have trust to-morrow.”
“Nay, of a truth, we have no time to stand talking to thee, good woman,” cried Rory impatiently; “had it been to drink mair yill, indeed, I mought hae tholed it; but, holy St. Barnabas, an thou dost keep us much longer there will be guests in thy hut who will drain thy casks without filling thy pockets. Let me past: Rory Spears’ word, though that of ane esquire only, is as sicker as that o’ the best knight in the land. Thou shalt be paid after the scrimmage. Nay, I’ll no die, woman, till thou be’st paid, so fear thee not—and stand out o’ my gate, I tell thee.”
With a turn of his wrist, Rory shoved Mrs. MacCleareye aside. She was jostled by Sang, who followed; and her round and rolling person was fairly run down by MacErchar, who was pressing hastily after them. The rest sprang impetuously over her. The cries now came more distinctly upon them, mingled with the clash of weapons.
“The English, the English!—Piersie!—The English!” were the words now distinguishable.
“To the trenches, my friends; not a moment is to be lost,” cried Mortimer Sang.
“Blow, blow!” cried Roger Riddel; and Rory putting to his mouth an old hunting bugle that hung from his shoulder, blew a shrill and potent blast, that awakened the very echoes of the hills.