, forced to retreat before eight or ten
of the Clan Chattan, made a stand on the bank of the river, while their
enemies were making such exertions as their wounds would permit to come
up with them. Torquil had just reached the spot where he had resolved
to make the stand, when the young Tormot dropped and expired. His death
drew from his father the first and only sigh which he had breathed
throughout the eventful day.

"My son Tormot!" he said, "my youngest and dearest! But if I save
Hector, I save all. Now, my darling dault, I have done for thee all that
man may, excepting the last. Let me undo the clasps of that ill omened
armour, and do thou put on that of Tormot; it is light, and will fit
thee well. While you do so, I will rush on these crippled men, and make
what play with them I can. I trust I shall have but little to do, for
they are following each other like disabled steers. At least, darling of
my soul, if I am unable to save thee, I can show thee how a man should
die."

While Torquil thus spoke, he unloosed the clasps of the young chief's
hauberk, in the simple belief that he could thus break the meshes which
fear and necromancy had twined about his heart.

"My father--my father--my more than parent," said the unhappy Eachin,
"stay with me! With you by my side, I feel I can fight to the last."

"It is impossible," said Torquil. "I will stop them coming up, while you
put on the hauberk. God eternally bless thee, beloved of my soul!"

And then, brandishing his sword, Torquil of the Oak rushed forward
with the same fatal war cry which had so often sounded over that bloody
field, "Bas air son Eachin!" The words rung three times in a voice of
thunder; and each time that he cried his war shout he struck down one of
the Clan Chattan as he met them successively straggling towards him.

"Brave battle, hawk--well flown, falcon!" exclaimed the multitude,
as they witnessed exertions which seemed, even at this last hour, to
threaten a change of the fortunes of the day. Suddenly these cries were
hushed into silence, and succeeded by a clashing of swords so dreadful,
as if the whole conflict had recommenced in the person of Henry Wynd and
Torquil of the Oak. They cut, foined, hewed, and thrust as if they had
drawn their blades for the first time that day; and their inveteracy was
mutual, for Torquil recognised the foul wizard who, as he supposed, had
cast a spell over his child; and Henry saw before him the giant who,