But the Law was not to be thus flouted.  If he wouldn’t come freely, then he must be made to come, said the sheriff.  Here a difficulty arose.  Ringan’s reputation for gigantic strength and utter fearlessness still survived, and no one dared even attempt to apprehend the old man.  In such circumstances the sheriff pressed into his service the Marquess and his men, and this party set off for Smailcleuchfoot.  Friends warned Ringan of their coming and counselled him to fly.  But the dour old Cameronian’s spirit refused to let him do aught that might even remotely suggest a doubt as to his being absolutely in the right.  He only retired into his house, and resolutely set about barring doors and windows; and when that was done—­

“Let them touch me that daur,” he cried, taking up and carefully loading the same old musket with which he had shot the dog.

Soon came the sheriff’s summons, to which Ringan paid no heed, beyond letting the party know that he was at home, and had no intention of surrendering.  There was in the house with him at this time a young girl (whether an adopted daughter or merely a maid who cooked and looked after the old man’s house, one does not know), but she had refused to leave when he began to barricade the place, and Ringan’s sole anxiety was now apparently for her.  Of his own safety or that of his house, he seemed to think not at all; the grim old dourness and determination that had distinguished him at Bothwell Bridge and elsewhere were again smouldering, ready to burst into flame.

“Keep oot o’ the licht, lass, and rin nae risk; gang in ahint yon press door,” he said to the girl, when the men outside began firing at the windows.

Then he, too, began to fire back at his enemies, and for a time he was too much absorbed in his practice to pay attention to what the girl might be doing.  Thus, he had just fired a shot which clipped away one of the curls from the Sheriff’s wig, when a gasp, and the sound of a heavy fall on the floor behind him, caused the old man hastily to look round.  Curiosity had overcome her caution; the girl had ventured from her shelter, and, standing behind Ringan, had been trying to see, past the edge of the window, how things were going outside.  Perhaps she had a lover in the attacking party, and feared for his safety.  Anyhow, as she lent forward, forgetting her own danger, a bullet meant for the old man found its billet in her throat.  For a moment Ringan stood aghast, then knelt by the dying girl, striving in vain to staunch the blood that gushed from her wound.  And as he realised that such a hurt was far beyond his simple skill, the lust to kill was born again in the old man’s breast.  He forgot that he was old, forgot how the treacherous years had stolen from him the vigour and spring that had been his, forgot everything but the half-crazy desire for vengeance.