"MacIan," said Turnbull, falling almost into the familiar tone of
a business partner, "MacIan, tie up this fellow and put a gag in
his mouth. Be still, I say, or I kill you where you stand."

The man was too frightened to scream, but he struggled wildly,
while Evan MacIan, whose long, lean hands were unusually
powerful, tightened some old curtain cords round him, strapped a
rope gag in his mouth and rolled him on his back on the floor.

"There's nothing very strong here," said Evan, looking about him.
"I'm afraid he'll work through that gag in half an hour or so."

"Yes," said Turnbull, "but one of us will be killed by that
time."

"Well, let's hope so," said the Highlander, glancing doubtfully
at the squirming thing on the floor.

"And now," said Turnbull, twirling his fiery moustache and
fingering his sword, "let us go into the garden. What an
exquisite summer evening!"

MacIan said nothing, but lifting his sword from the counter went
out into the sun.

The brilliant light ran along the blades, filling the channels of
them with white fire; the combatants stuck their swords in the
turf and took off their hats, coats, waistcoats, and boots. Evan
said a short Latin prayer to himself, during which Turnbull made
something of a parade of lighting a cigarette which he flung away