turned to the four enemies, passed his sword clean through
each of them, and tumbled them out of doors one after the other. As he
did so, he kept humming and singing and whistling to himself, like a man
trying to recall an air; only what _he_ was trying was to make one. All
the while, the flush was in his face, and his eyes were as bright as a
five-year-old child's with a new toy. And presently he sat down upon
the table, sword in hand; the air that he was making all the time began
to run a little clearer, and then clearer still; and then out he burst
with a great voice into a Gaelic song.

I have translated it here, not in verse (of which I have no skill) but
at least in the king's English. He sang it often afterwards, and the
thing became popular; so that I have heard it, and had it explained to
me, many's the time.

This is the song of the sword of Alan:
The smith made it,
The fire set it;
Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck.

Their eyes were many and bright,
Swift were they to behold,
Many the hands they guided:
The sword was alone.

The dun deer troop over the hill,
They are many, the hill is one:
The dun deer vanish,
The hill remains.

Come to me from the hills of heather,
Come from the isles of the sea.
O far-beholding eagles,
Here is your meat.

Now this song which he made (both words and music) in the hour of our
victory, is something less than just to me, who stood beside him in the
tussle. Mr. Shuan and five more were either killed outright or
thoroughly disabled; but of these, two fell by my hand, the two that
came by the skylight. Four more were hurt, and of that number, one (and
he not the least important) got his hurt from me. So that, altogether, I
did my fair share both of the killing and the wounding, and might have
claimed a place in Alan's verses. But poets have to think upon their
rhymes; and in good prose talk Alan always did me more than justice.

In the meanwhile, I was innocent of any wrong being done me. For not
only I knew no word of the Gaelic; but what with the long suspense of
the waiting, and the scurry and strain of our two spirts of fighting,
and, more than all, the horror I had of some of my own share in it, the
thing was no sooner over than I was glad to stagger to a seat. There was
that tightness on my chest that I could hardly breathe; the thought of
the two men I had shot sat upon me like a nightmare; and all upon a
sudden, and befo