Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if you
be a man!"

There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated passion, which
attracts attention and imposes awe, even by the very sound. The guests
shrunk back on every side, and gazed at the Highlander as he stood
in the middle of them, his brows bent, and his features rigid with
resolution.

"I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to
shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness. It is not the fault
of your heart, man, that you don't know how to clench your hands."

By this time he stood opposite to his antagonist, his open and
unsuspecting look strangely contrasted with the stern purpose, which
gleamed wild, dark, and vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander.

"'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman,
thou canst not fight more than a school-girl."

"I can fight," answered Robin Oig sternly, but calmly, "and you shall
know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls
fight; I show you now how the Highland Dunnie-wassel fights."

He seconded the word with the action, and plunged the dagger, which he
suddenly displayed, into the broad breast of the English yeoman, with
such fatal certainty and force that the hilt made a hollow sound against
the breast-bone, and the double-edged point split the very heart of
his victim. Harry Wakefield fell and expired with a single groan. His
assassin next seized the bailiff by the collar, and offered the bloody
poniard to his throat, whilst dread and surprise rendered the man
incapable of defence.

"It were very just to lay you peside him," he said, "but the blood of a
pase pickthank shall never mix on my father's dirk, with that of a brave
man."

As he spoke, he cast the man from him with so much force that he fell on
the floor, while Robin, with his other hand, threw the fatal weapon into
the blazing turf-fire.

"There," he said, "take me who likes--and let fire cleanse blood if it
can."

The pause of astonishment still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a
peace-officer, and a constable having stepped out, he surrendered
himself to his custody.

"A bloody night's work you have made of it," said the constable.

"Your own fault," said the Highlander. "Had you kept his hands off me
twa hours since, he would have been now as well and merry as he was twa
minutes since."

"It must be sorely answered," said the peace-officer.