That was well enough, but I saw Muckle John staggering to his feet, and I feared desperately for his next move.

The girl was either mad or extraordinarily brave.
"Get back, you pitiful knaves," she cried.

"Lay a hand on me, and I will cut you to ribbons.

Make haste, Janet, and quit this folly." It was gallant talk, but there was no sense in it.

Muckle John was on his feet, half the clan had gone round to our rear, and in a second or two she would have been torn from the saddle.