the bridle with his left hand, and flashing his sword upon the ruffian with the other, shouted, ’Let go, villain; give me my sister!’ Hall’s first impulse was to push his horse forward so as to trample the boy down, but Malcolm’s hold rendered this impossible; besides, there was the shouting, the clang, the confusion of the outburst of an ambush all around and on every side, and before the man could free his hand to draw his weapon he necessarily loosed his grasp of Lilias, who, half springing, half falling, came to the ground, almost overthrowing her brother in her descent, but just saved by him from coming down prostrate.  The horse, suddenly released, started forward with its rider and at the same moment Malcolm, recovering himself, stood with his sword in his hand, his arm round his sister’s waist, assuring her that she was safe, and himself glowing for the first time with manly exultation.  Had he not saved and rescued her himself?

It was as well, however, that the rescue did not depend on his sole prowess.  Indeed, by the time the brother and sister were clinging together and turning to look round, the first shock was over, and the retainers of Albany, probably fancying the attack made by a much larger troop, were either in full flight, or getting decidedly the worst in their encounters with their assailants.

Sir James Stewart had at the first onset sprung like a lion upon the Master of Albany, and without drawing his sword had grappled with him.  ‘In the name of St. Andrew and the King, yield thy prey, thou dastard,’ were his words as he threw his arms round the body of Sir Walter, and exerted his full strength to drag him from his horse.  The young giant writhed, struggled, cursed, raged; he had not space to draw sword or even dagger, but he struck furiously with his gauntleted hand, strove to drive his horse forward.  The struggle like that of Hercules and Antaeus, so desperate and mighty was the strength put forth on either side, but nothing could unclasp the iron grip of those sinewy arms, and almost as soon as Malcolm and Lilias had eyes to see what was passing, Walter Stewart was being dragged off his horse by that tremendous grapple, and the next moment his armour rung as he lay prostrate on his back upon the ground.

His conqueror set his mailed foot upon his neck lightly, but so as to prevent any attempt to rise, and after one moment’s pause to gather breath, said in a clear deep trumpet voice, ’Walter Stewart of Albany, on one condition I grant thee thy life.  It is that thou take the most solemn oath on the spot that no spulzie or private brawl shall henceforth stain that hand of thine while thy father holds the power in Scotland.  Take that oath, thou livest:  refuse it, and—­’ He held up the deadly little dagger called the misericorde.

‘And who art thou, caitiff land-louper,’ muttered Walter, ’to put to oath knights and princes?’

The knight raised the visor of his helmet.  The evening sun shone resplendently on his damasked blue armour and the St. Andrew’s cross on his breast, and lighted up that red fire that lurked in his eyes, and withal the calm power and righteous indignation on his features might have befitted an avenging angel wielding the lightning.