Two or three fierce tugs at the hilt proving the blade immovable in the sheath, and the steps being now almost at the door, he clubbed the weapon, grasping it by the sheathed blade, and holding it with the edge downward, so that the blow he meant to deal should fall from the round of the basket hilt.

As he heaved it aloft, the gray old shepherd seemed inspired by the god of battles; the rage of a hundred ancestors was welling up in his peaceful breast.

His red eye flashed, and the few hairs that were left him stood erect on his head like the mane of a roused lion.

Ere Angus had his second foot over the threshold, down came the helmet-like hilt with a dull crash on his head, and he staggered against the wall.
"Tak ye that, Angus Mac Pholp!" panted Robert through his clenched teeth, following the blow with another from his fist, that prostrated the enemy.

Again he heaved his weapon, and standing over him where he lay, more than half-stunned, said in a hoarse voice, "By the great God my maker, Angus Mac Pholp, gien ye seek to rise, I'll come doon on ye again as ye lie!--Here, Oscar!--He's no ane to haud ony fair play wi', mair nor a brute beast .-- Watch him, Oscar, and tak him by the thro't gien he muv a finger." The gun had dropped from Angus's hand, and Robert, keeping his eye on him, secured it.
"She's lodd," muttered Angus.
"Lie still than," returned Robert, pointing the weapon at his head.
"It'll be murder," said Angus, and made a movement to lay hold of the barrel.
"Haud him doon, Oscar," cried Robert.