“A Douglas!  A Douglas!  Treachery!  Treachery!” yelled a wild Minnigaff man, thrusting a naked brand high into the air within an inch of the burgess’s nose.  That worthy citizen almost fell backwards in dismay, and indeed must have done so but for the pressure of the crowd behind him.  He was, therefore, much against his will compelled to keep his place in the front rank of the spectators.

“Well done, young lad,” cried the crowd, seeing Sholto ward and strike at Poitou and his master, “God, but he is fechtin’ like the black deil himself!”

“It will be as chancy for him,” cried the wild Minnigaff hillman, “for I will tear the harrigals oot o’ Sholto MacKim if onything happen to the Earl!”

But the captain of the guard, light as a feather, had easily avoided the thrust of the marshal’s spear, taking it at an angle and turning it aside with his shield.  Then, springing up behind him, he pulled the French knight down to the ground with the hook of his axe, by that trick of attack which was the lesson taught once for all to the Scots of the Lowlands upon the stricken field of the Red Harlaw.

The marshal fell heavily and lay still, for he was a man of feeble body, and the weight of his armour very great.

“Slay him!  Slay him!” yelled the people, still furious at what, not without reason, they considered rank treachery.

Sholto recovered himself, and reached his master only in time to find Poitou bending over Earl Douglas with a dagger in his hand.

With a wild yell he lashed out at the Breton squire, and Sholto’s axe striking fair on his steel cap, Poitou fell senseless across the body of Douglas.

“Well done, Sholto MacKim—­well done, lad!” came from all the barrier, and even Ninian Halliburton cried:  “Ye shall hae a silken doublet for that!” Then, recollecting himself, he added, “At little mair than cost price!”

“God in heeven, ’tis bonny fechtin!” cried the man from Minnigaff.  “Oh, if I could dirk the fause hound I wad dee happy!”

And the hillman danced on the toes of the Bailie of Dumfries and shook the barriers with his hand till he received a rap over the knuckles from the handle of a partisan directed by the stout arms of Andro the Penman.

“Haud back there, heather-besom!” cried the archer, “gin ye want ever again to taste ’braxy’!”

Over the rest of the field the fortune of war had been somewhat various.  William of Douglas had unhorsed his brother Hugh at the first shock, but immediately foregoing his advantage with the most chivalrous courtesy, he leaped from his own horse and drew his sword.

On the right Alan Fleming, being by the marshal’s action suddenly deprived of his opponent, had wheeled his charger and borne down sideways upon James of Douglas, and that doughty champion, not having fully recovered from the shock of his encounter with the Earl, and being taken from an unexpected quarter, went down as much to his own surprise as to that of the people at the barriers, who had looked upon him as the strongest champion on the field.