together and turning to look round, the first shock was over, and the
retainers of Albany, probably fancying the attack made by a much larger
troop, were either in full flight, or getting decidedly the worst in
their encounters with their assailants.

Sir James Stewart had at the first onset sprung like a lion upon the
Master of Albany, and without drawing his sword had grappled with him.
'In the name of St. Andrew and the King, yield thy prey, thou dastard,'
were his words as he threw his arms round the body of Sir Walter, and
exerted his full strength to drag him from his horse. The young giant
writhed, struggled, cursed, raged; he had not space to draw sword or even
dagger, but he struck furiously with his gauntleted hand, strove to drive
his horse forward. The struggle like that of Hercules and Antaeus, so
desperate and mighty was the strength put forth on either side, but
nothing could unclasp the iron grip of those sinewy arms, and almost as
soon as Malcolm and Lilias had eyes to see what was passing, Walter
Stewart was being dragged off his horse by that tremendous grapple, and
the next moment his armour rung as he lay prostrate on his back upon the
ground.

His conqueror set his mailed foot upon his neck lightly, but so as to
prevent any attempt to rise, and after one moment's pause to gather
breath, said in a clear deep trumpet voice, 'Walter Stewart of Albany, on
one condition I grant thee thy life. It is that thou take the most
solemn oath on the spot that no spulzie or private brawl shall henceforth
stain that hand of thine while thy father holds the power in Scotland.
Take that oath, thou livest: refuse it, and--' He held up the deadly
little dagger called the misericorde.

'And who art thou, caitiff land-louper,' muttered Walter, 'to put to oath