hat's all."

"If ye daur!"

"Oh, we daur. Don't we, Scood?"

"Oh ay," roared the young gillie.

The bailiff walked back to his men, whispered a few orders, and then
turned once more to Kenneth, who was standing now well in sight on the
crumbling battlements, with Max by his side.

"Noo, my laddie, let's hae a' this bet o' besness settled doucely.
Ye'll come doon and open the gates?"

"No surrender!" cried Kenneth.

"Ye'll hae the gates opened?"

"No; so blow your trumpet again. Defiance! There!"

He took a clean aim with a great potato; and the bailiff had to dodge
the shot very sharply, to avoid receiving the blow on his cheek.

But the shot was not wasted, for a man behind had it full in the chest,
and a shout arose.

"That will do!" cried the bailiff. "You've struck a blow, so you must
put up with the consequences. Noo, my lads, come on!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HOW DONALD PLAYED THE WAR MARCH.

The bailiff turned to his men and gave them an order, whose effect was
to make them shuffle together.

"You hear me, sir!" cried the bailiff. "You struck the first blow."

"You lie, you bun-faced Southroner!" cried Kenneth. "You made the first
blow in that old pocket-handkerchief."

"Will you surrender?"

"No!"

"Then come on, my lads. Forward!"

"Hurray! hurray!" shouted Ken, pointing upwards; and the bailiff and his
men stopped and stared with open mouths at the scene.

"Look, Max! Look, Scoody! Hurray! Mackhai! Mackhai!"

A shrill, piercing, cracked old voice echoed the cry from above, and the
lads on the crumbling battlements over the gateway, where they stood
ready with pails of water for sending down through the machicolations,
stood gazing at a tall weird figure in full war-paint, with the front of
his bonnet cocked up with its eagle pinion feathers, his grey hair
flying in the breeze, his eyes flashing, tartan scarf buckled with his
great cairngorm brooch, as old Tonal' climbed slowly into sight, and
stood on the narrow ledge of battlement at the very top of the
right-hand tower.

"Ta Mackhai!" he yelled. "Ta Mackhai!" and, as he stood there, with
scarf and kilt fluttering about his tall, lean old figure, he looked
like one of the ancient fighting men of the clan come back from the
Middle Ages to battle in defence of his chief.

"Ta Mackhai! Ta Mackhai!" he yelled again, in answer to a tremendous
cheer from the party within.

"Come doon, ye auld idgit!" shouted the ba