"
And now Ringan, blood flowing from a dozen gashes, was down on one knee,
but still almost mechanically guarding head and body from the whirlwind
final attack of the Highlander. Sick at heart, the Lowland onlookers
turned their looks aside; they hated to see such an end of a brave
comrade, and they were too few to avenge him. Suddenly, and with bent
heads, they turned away from looking at the figure of the wearied
Borderer, beaten down on to his knee, away from sight of the flashing
claymore that was now so near to tasting their friend's life-blood. And
then to their ears came a roar, as of the routing of some mighty bull of
Bashan. Glancing back quickly, their astonished eyes saw Rory Dhu Mhor
standing rigidly erect and stiff, an expression of blank wonder on his
hairy face, and the point of Ringan's broadsword appearing out between
the Highlander's shoulders. Then, with another mighty roar, as the sword
was withdrawn, he sprang convulsively off the ground, and with a clatter
fell heavily on his target, dead. It was a spent man that he was dealing
with, he had rashly thought. Too well he knew the game; he had played it
successfully so often before. It needed but to go in now and slay. In
his over confidence the Highlander neglected for one moment to be
cunning of fence, and during that moment he exposed his body.
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