I will not let you strike the poor animal.

Just look at this water-chain!" "Hold your tongue, and stand away, or, by--" "Ye winna fricht me, sir," said Donal, whose English would, for years, upon any excitement, turn cowardly and run away, leaving his mother-tongue to bear the brunt, "-- I'm no timorsome." Forgue brought down his whip with a great stinging blow upon Donal's shoulder and back.

The fierce blood of the highland Celt rushed to his brain, and had not the man in him held by God and trampled on the devil, there might then have been miserable work.

But though he clenched his teeth, he fettered his hands, and ruled his tongue, and the Master of men was master still.
"My lord," he said, after one instant's thunderous silence, "there's that i' me wad think as little o' throttlin' ye as ye du o' ill-usin' yer puir beast.

But I'm no gaein' to drop his quarrel, an' tak up my ain: that wad be cooardly." Here he patted the creature's neck, and recovering his composure and his English, went on.