CHAPTER VI.
THE CLASH OF SWORDS.
The two sat fronting one another on their horses. Inglis was the olderand more firmly set man. But Wat of Lochinvar was slender and lithe as abow that has not been often bent and quivers to the straight. It was acurious sight to see them passaging with little airs and graces, likefighting cocks matched in a pit.
The soldiers stood indifferently around. A pair of dragoons patrolled,turning and crossing as if on parade, within earshot of the quarrel oftheir officers. It was the first time I had ever seen what disciplinemeant. And in a moment I learned why they had broken us at Bothwell andRullion Green. For I have heard my brother Sandy say that at any time inthe Covenanting host, had three drawn together and spoken like men thatare hot in questioning, the whole army would have run from their poststo hear and to take part in the controversy. But all the while thesedragoons kept their noses pointing in the straight of their necks, andfronted and wheeled like machines. It was, in fact, none of theirbusiness if their officers cut each others' throats. But they knew thatone John Graham would assuredly make it his business if they omittedtheir military service.
"Cornet Inglis," said Lochinvar, doffing lightly his feathered hat thathad the King's colours in it, "hearken ye well. This is my cousin Willof Earlstoun, who took no part with his kin in the late rebellion, as Itook no part with mine, but instead abode at home in peace. I requireyou to let him go upon his errand. I myself will be answerable for himto Colonel Graham of Claverhouse. After that we can arrange our littlematter as to favour and its causes."
There was a keen leaping light in my cousin Wat's blue eyes, the lightthat I afterwards grew to know as the delight of battle. He was waxingcoldly angry. For me I grow dourly silent as I become angered. Mybrother Sandy grows red and hot, but Wullcat Wat was of those moredangerous men to whom deadly anger, when it comes, at once quickens thepulses and stills the nerves.
"Think not I am afraid of a traitor's son, or of any of the name ofLochinvar," quoth Inglis, who was indeed no coward when once he hadtaken up a quarrel; "after all, ye are all no better than abow-o'-meal-Gordon!"
It was the gage of battle. After that there was no more to be said. Tocall a man of our name "a-bow-o'-meal-Gordon" is equal to saying that hehas no right to the name he bears. For it is said that a certainLochinvar, wanting retainers to ride at his back, offered a snug holdingand so many bolls of meal yearly to any lusty youth who would marry onhis land, take his name, and set himself like a worthy sworder to breedwell-boned loons to carry in their turns the leathern jack.
At the taunt, swift as flame Wat of Lochinvar rode nearer to his enemyon his quick-turning well-mouthed horse, and drawing the leathergauntlet through his fingers till the fingers were striped narrow likewhip lashes, he struck Inglis with it upon the cheek.
"My father's head," he cried, "may be on the Netherbow. He had his wayof thinking and died for it. I have mine and may die for it in my time.But in the meantime Lochinvar's son is not to be flouted by the son of aman who cried with all parties and hunted with none."
Two swords flashed into the air together, the relieved scabbardsjingling back against the horses' sides. The basket hilt of that ofCornet Inglis had the cavalry tassel swinging to it, while the crossbarand simple Italian guard of Wat Gordon's lighter weapon seemed as if itmust instantly be beaten down by the starker weapon of the dragoon. Butas they wheeled their horses on guard with a touch of the bridle hand, Isaw John Scarlet, Wat's master of fence, flash a look at his scholar'sguard-sword. Wat used an old-fashioned shearing-sword, an ancient bladewhich, with various hilt devices, many a Gordon of Lochinvar had carriedwhen he ruffled it in court and hall. I caught John Scarlet's look ofsatisfaction, and judged that he anticipated no danger to one whom hehad trained, from a fighter at haphazard like Cornet Peter Inglis. Butyet the dragoon was no tyro, for he had proved himself in many ahard-stricken fray.
So without a word they fell to it. And, by my faith, it made a strangepicture on the grassy track which wound itself through these wilds, tosee the glossy black of Wat Gordon's charger front the heavier weight ofthe King's man's grey.
At the first crossing of the swords, the style of the two men was madeevident. That of Inglis was the simpler. He fought most like a practicalsoldier, with the single purpose of making his adversary feel the edgeof his weapon; while Wat, lighter and lither, had all the parade andpomp of the schools.
Lochinvar depended on a low tierce guard with a sloping point, andreined his horse near, that his enemy might be prevented from closingwith him on his left, or side of disadvantage. The dragoon used thesimpler hanging guard and pressed upon his adversary with plain dourweight of steel.
At the first clash of the iron the horses heaved their heads, and downfrom the hillside above there came a faint crying as of shepherds totheir flocks. But the combatants were too intent to take notice. JohnScarlet reined his horse at the side, his head a little low set betweenhis shoulders, and his eyes following every thrust and parry with aglance like a rapier.
For the first five minutes Inglis tried all his powers of battering uponWat Gordon's lighter guard, his heavy cavalry sword beating anddisengaging with the fellest intent. He fought with a still andlip-biting fury. He struck to kill, hammering with strong threshingblows; Wat, more like a duellist of the schools--rather, as it seemed,to show his mastery of the weapon. But nevertheless the thin suppleblade of the young laird followed every beat and lunge of the heavieriron with speed and certainty. Each moment it seemed as if Wat mustcertainly be cut down. But his black obeyed the rein at the moment ofdanger, and his sword twisted round that of his adversary as an adderwinds itself about a stick.
More and more angry grew the dragoon, and a grim smile sat intent andwatchful on the face of John Scarlet. But he spoke never a word, and thered sentries paced placidly to and fro along the burnside of Garryhorn.More and more wildly Cornet Inglis struck, urging his horse forward toforce Lochinvar's black down the hill. But featly and gracefully the ladwheeled and turned, keeping ever his hand in tierce and his blade acrosshis body, slipping and parrying with the utmost calm and ease.
"Click, click!" came the noise of the clashing sword-blades, flickeringso swiftly that the eye could not follow them. In time Lochinvar foundout his opponent's disadvantage, which was in the slower movement of hishorse, but to this Inglis responded like a man. He kept his beastturning about within his own length, so that come where he would Wat hadno advantage. Yet gradually and surely the dragoon was being tired out.From attacking he fell to guarding, and at last even his parry grewlifeless and feeble. Wat, on the other hand, kept his enemy's bladeconstantly engaged. He struck with certainty and parried with a lighthammering movement that was pretty to watch, even to one who had noskill of the weapon.
At last, wearied with continual check, Inglis leaned too far over hishorse's head in a fierce thrust. The beast slipped with the suddenweight, and the dragoon's steel cap went nearly to his charger's neck.
In a moment, seeing his disadvantage, Inglis attempted to recover; butWat's lighter weapon slid under his guard as he threw his sword handinvoluntarily up. It pierced his shoulder, and a darker red followed thesteel upon his horseman's coat, as Wat withdrew his blade to be readyfor the return. But of this there was no need, for Inglis instantlydropped his hand to his side and another sword suddenly struck up thatof Wat Gordon, as the dragoon's heavy weapon clattered upon the stones.