A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which indeed had rather escaped from poor Robin's swelling heart, than been the dictates of his sober judgment.
"Gentleman, quotha!" was echoed on all sides, with a shout of unextinguishable laughter; "a very pretty gentleman, God wot—Canst get two swords for the gentleman to fight with, Ralph Heskett?"
"No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and lend them two forks to be making shift with in the meantime."
"Tush, man," said another, "the bonny Scots come into the world with the blue bonnet on their heads, and dirk and pistol at their belt."
"Best send post," said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, "to the squire of Corby Castle to come and stand second to the gentleman."
In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the Highlander instinctively griped beneath the folds of his plaid.
"But it's better not," he said in his own language. "A hundred curses on the swine-eaters, who know neither decency nor civility!"
"Make room, the pack of you," he said, advancing to the door.
But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and opposed his leaving the house; and when Robin Oig attempted to make his way by force, he hit him down on the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls down a nine-pin.
"A ring, a ring!" was now shouted, until the dark rafters, and the hams that hung on them, trembled again, and the very platters on the bink clattered against each other. "Well done, Harry."—"Give it him home, Harry."—"Take care of him now—he sees his own blood!"