“Gadso! Betwixt and between, but I dare say my sword will serve to keep my head at all events whatefer,” cried Creagh, mimicking scornfully the other’s accent.
Donald whipped his sword from its scabbard.
“Fery well. That will make easy proving, sir.”
The quarrel had cropped out so quickly that hitherto I had found no time to interfere, but now I came between them and beat down the swords.
“Are you mad, gentlemen? Put up your sword, Tony. Back, Macdonald, or on my soul I’ll run you through,” I cried.
“Come on, the pair of ye. Captain Roy can fend for (look out for) himself,” shouted the excited Highlander, thrusting at me.
“Fall back, Tony, and let me have a word,” I implored.
The Irishman disengaged, his anger nearly gone, a whimsical smile already twitching at his mouth.
“Creagh, you don’t mean to impeach the courage of Captain Macdonald, do you?” I asked.
“Not at all—not at all. Faith, I never saw a man more keen to fight,” he admitted, smiling.