“Wretch!” exclaimed the henchman Trotter, dashing forward, and raising his sword, “said ye that my master proved false at Flodden?”

“Hold!” exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping his arm.  “Gramercy, ye uncivilised dog! for the sake of your master’s head would ye lift your hand against that face which ladies die to look upon?  Pardon me, most beautiful Chevalier! the salutation of my servant may be too rough for your French palate, but you and your master treated my kinsman somewhat more roughly.  What say ye, Sir Warden? do ye depart in peace, or wish ye that we should try the temper of our Border steel upon your French bucklers?”

“Depart ye in peace, vain boaster,” replied D’Arcy, “lest a worse thing befall you.”

“Then on, my merry men!” cried Wedderburn, “and to-day the head of the Regent’s favourite, the Chevalier of Beauty, for the head of the Earl of Home!”

“The house of Home and revenge!” shouted his followers, and rushed upon the armed band of D’Arcy.  At first the numbers were nearly equal, and the contest was terrible.  Each man fought hand to hand, and the ground was contested inch by inch.  The gilded ornaments of the French horses were covered with blood, and their movements were encumbered by their weight.  The sword of Wedderburn had already smitten three of the Chevalier’s followers to the ground, and the two chiefs now contended in single combat.  D’Arcy fought with the fury of despair, but Home continued to bear upon him as a tiger that has been robbed of its cubs.  Every moment the force of the Chevalier was thinned, and every instant the number of his enemies increased, as the neighbouring peasantry rallied round the standard of their chief.  Finding the most faithful of his followers stretched upon the earth, D’Arcy sought safety in flight.  Dashing his silver spurs into the sides of his noble steed, he turned his back upon his desperate enemy, and rushed along in the direction of Pouterleiny, and through Dunse, with the hope of gaining the road to Dunbar, of which town he was governor.  Fiercely Wedderburn followed at his heels, with his naked sword uplifted, and ready to strike; immediately behind him rode Trotter, the henchman of the late earl, and another of Home’s followers named Dickson.  It was a fearful sight as they rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels in the light of the very sunbeams, and the sword of the pursuer within a few feet of the fugitive.  Still the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on the gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life of its rider depended upon its speed.  His flaxen locks waived behind him in the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his ear, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom.  The horse upon which Wedderburn rode had been wounded in the conflict, and, as they drew near Broomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers, Trotter and Dickson, took the lead in the pursuit.  The Chevalier had reached a spot on the right bank of the Whitadder, which is now in a field of the farm of Swallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous trappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth.  The next moment the swords of Trotter and Dickson were through the body of the unfortunate Chevalier.