Something like the sails of a windmill smote me on the jaw, and I felt myself falling into a pit of great darkness where little lights twinkled.
The next I knew I was sitting propped against the tent-pole with a cold bandage round my forehead, and Ringan with a napkin bathing my face.
"Cheer up, man," he cried; "you've got off light, for there's no a scratch on your lily-white cheek, and the blood-letting from the nose will clear out the dregs of Moro's hocus." I blinked a little, and tried to recall what had happened.

All my ill-humour had gone, and I was now in a hurry to set myself right with my conscience.

He heard my apology with an embarrassed face.
"Say no more, Andrew.

I was as muckle to blame as you, and I've been giving myself some ill names for that last trick.

It was ower hard, but, man, the temptation was sore." He elbowed me to the open air.
"Now for the questions you've a right to ask.