ous game there trespassed the innocent
love-lilt of a bird. I risked him the flash of an eye as he stood, a
becking black body on a bough, his yellow beak shaking out a flutey note
of passionate serenade. Thus the irony of nature; no heed for us, the
head and crown of things created: the bird would build its home and
hatch its young upon the sapling whose roots were soaked by young
MacLachlan's blood.

His blood! That was now the last thing I desired. He fought with
suppleness and strength, if not with art; he fought, too, with venom in
his strokes, his hair tossed high upon his temples, his eyes the whitest
of his person, as he stood, to his own advantage, that I never grudged
him, with his back against the sunset I contented with defence till he
cursed with a baffled accent. His man called piteously and eagerly; but
M'Iver checked him, and the fight went on. Not the lunge, at least,
I determined, though the punishment of a trivial wound was scarce
commensurate with his sin. So I let him slash and sweat till I wearied
of the game, caught his weapon in the curved guard of my hilt, and broke
it in two.

He dropped the fragment in his hand with a cry of mingled anger and
despair, snatched a knife from his stocking, and rushed on me to stab.
Even then I had him at my mercy. As he inclosed, I made a complete volte
with the left foot, passed back my right in rear of his, changed my
sword into my left hand, holding it by the middle of the blade and
presenting the point at his throat, while my right hand, across his
body, seized his wrist.

For a moment I felt the anger at his treachery almost overmaster me. He
thought himself gone. He let his head fall helplessly on my breast, and
stood still as one waiting the stroke, with his eyes, as M'Iver told
me again, closed and his mouth parted. But a spasm of disgust at the
uncleanness of the task to be done made me retch and pause.

"Home, dog!" I gasped, and I threw him from me sprawling on the sod.
He fell, in his weariness, in an awkward and helpless mass; the knife,
still in his hand, pierced him on the shoulder, and thus the injury I
could not give him by my will was given him by Providence. Over on his
back he turned with a plash of blood oozing at his shirt, and he grasped
with clawing fingers to stanch it, yet never relinquishing his look of
bitter anger at me. With cries, with tears, with names of affection, the
gillie ran to his master, who I saw was not very seriously