oth at
once, compelled him to keep the defensive.

"Forward, race of the tiger cat!" cried MacGillie Chattanach. "Save the
brave Saxon; let these kites feel your talons!"

Already much wounded, the chief dragged himself up to the smith's
assistance, and cut down one of the leichtach, by whom he was assailed.
Henry's own good sword rid him of the other.

"Reist air son Eachin!" (Again for Hector!) shouted the faithful foster
father.

"Bas air son Eachin!" (Death for Hector!) answered two more of his
devoted sons, and opposed themselves to the fury of the smith and those
who had come to his aid; while Eachin, moving towards the left wing of
the battle, sought less formidable adversaries, and again, by some show
of valour, revived the sinking hopes of his followers. The two children
of the oak, who had covered, this movement, shared the fate of their
brethren; for the cry of the Clan Chattan chief had drawn to that part
of the field some of his bravest warriors. The sons of Torquil did not
fall unavenged, but left dreadful marks of their swords on the persons
of the dead and living. But the necessity of keeping their most
distinguished soldiers around the person of their chief told to
disadvantage on the general event of the combat; and so few were now
the number who remained fighting, that it was easy to see that the Clan
Chattan had fifteen of their number left, though most of them wounded,
and that of the Clan Quhele only about ten remained, of whom there were
four of the chief's bodyguard, including Torquil himself.

They fought and struggled on, however, and as their strength decayed,
their fury seemed to increase. Henry Wynd, now wounded in many places,
was still bent on breaking through, or exterminating, the band of bold
hearts who continued to fight around the object of his animosity.
But still the father's shout of "Another for Hector!" was cheerfully
answered by the fatal countersign, "Death for Hector!" and though the
Clan Quhele were now outnumbered, the combat seemed still dubious. It
was bodily lassitude alone that again compelled them to another pause.

The Clan Chattan were then observed to be twelve in number, but two or
three were scarce able to stand without leaning on their swords. Five
were left of the Clan Quhele; Torquil and his youngest son were of the
number, both slightly wounded. Eachin alone had, from the vigilance
used to intercept all blows levelled against his person, escaped without