It was evident, therefore, that, in spite of the loss of their leader, the Earl’s party stood every chance to win the field.  For not only was Alan Fleming the only knight left on horseback, but Malise MacKim had disposed of the laird of Stra’ven, squire to William of Avondale, having by one mighty axe stroke beaten the Lanarkshire man down to his knees.

“A Douglas!  A Douglas!” shouted the populace; “now let them have it!”

And the adherents of the Earl were proceeding to carry out this intent, when my Lord Maxwell unexpectedly put an end to the combat by throwing down his truncheon and proclaiming a drawn battle.

“False loon!” cried Sholto, shaking his axe at him in the extremity of his anger, “we have beaten them fairly.  Would that I could get at thee!  Come down and fight an encounter to the end.  I will take any Maxwell here in my shirt!”

“Hold your tongue!” commanded his father, briefly, “what else can ye expect of a border man but broken faith?”

The archers of the guard rushed in, as was their duty, and separated the remaining combatants.  Hugh and his brother William fought it to the last, the younger with all his vigour and with a fierce energy born of his brother James’s taunts, William with the calm courtesy and forbearance of an old and assured knight towards one who has yet his spurs to win.

The stunned knights and squires were conveyed to their several pavilions, where the Earl’s apothecaries were at once in attendance.  William of Douglas was the first to revive, which he did almost as soon as the laces of his helm had been undone and water dashed upon his face.  His head still sang, he declared, like a hive of bees, but that was all.

He bent with the anxiety of a generous enemy over the unconscious form of the Marshal de Retz, from whom they were stripping his armour.  At the removal of the helmet, the strange parchment face with its blue-black stubbly beard was seen to be more than usually pale and drawn.  The upper lip was retracted, and a set of long white teeth gleamed like those of a wild beast.

The apothecary was just commencing to strip off the leathern under-doublet from the ambassador’s body to search for a wound, when Poitou, his squire, happened to open his eyes.  He had been laid upon the floor, as the most seriously wounded of the combatants, though being the least in honour he fell to be attended last.

Instantly he cried out a strange Breton word, unintelligible to all present, and, leaping from the floor, he flung himself across the body of his master, dashing aside the astonished apothecary, who had only time to discern on the marshal’s shoulder the scar of a recent cautery before Poitou had restored the leathern under-doublet to its place.

“Hands off!  Do not touch my master.  I alone can bring him to.  Leave the room, all of you.”

“Sirrah!” cried the Earl, sternly, striding towards him, “I will teach you to speak humbly to more honourable men.”