"At him, Whitterick--grip him! Grip him! Now you have him at the
pinch! Well pulled, Brock! 'Tis a certainty for Brock--good Brock!
Well done--well done! Ah, would you? Hands off that dagger! Let
fisticuffs settle it! The Whitterick hath it--the Whitterick!"

And thus ran the comment. Sholto being cumbered with his armour,
Laurence might in time have gotten the upper grip. But at this moment
a diversion occurred which completely altered the character of the
conflict. A stout, reddish young man came up, holding in his hand a
staff painted with twining stripes of white and red, which showed him
to be the marshal of that part of the camp which pertained to the Earl
of Angus. He looked on for a moment from the skirts of the crowd, and
then elbowed his way self-importantly into the centre, till he stood
immediately above Laurence and Sholto.

"What means this hubbub, I say? Quit your hold there and come with me;
my Lord of Angus will settle this dispute."

He had come up just when the young men were in the final grips, when
Sholto had at last gotten his will of his brother's head, and was, as
the saying is, giving him "Dutch spice" in no very knightly fashion.

The Angus marshal, seeing this, seized Sholto by the collar of his
mailed shirt, and drawing him suddenly back, caused him to lose hold
of his brother, who as quickly rose to his feet. The red man began to
beat Sholto about the headpiece right heartily with his staff, which
exercise made a great ringing noise, though naturally, the skull cap
being the work of Malise MacKim, little harm ensued to the head
enclosed therein.