"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 Dunniewassal fights."

He then 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.

Robin next offered the bloody poniard to the bailiff's throat.

"It were very just to lay you beside him," he said, "but the blood of a
base pick-thank shall never mix on my father's dirk, with that of a
brave man."

As he spoke, he 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 still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a
constable having stepped out, he surrendered himself.

"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."