``I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my
boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and
drink down all unkindness. It is not the fault of
your heart, man, that you don't know how to clench
your hands.''
By this time he stood opposite to his antagonist;
his open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted
with the stern purpose, which gleamed
wild, dark, and vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander.
``'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the
luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight
more than a school-girl.''
``I can fight,'' answered Robin Oig sternly, but
calmly, ``and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt,
showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight
---I show you now how the Highland Dunni
-wassel
fights.''
He seconded the word with the action, and
plunged the dagger, which he suddenly displayed,
into the broad breast of the English yeoman, with
such fatal certainty and force, that the hilt made a
hollow sound against the breast-bone, and the
double-edged point split the very heart of his victim.
Harry Wakefield fell and expired with a
single groan. His assassin next seized the bailiff
by the collar, and offered the bloody poniard to his
throat, whilst dread and surprise rendered the man
incapable of defence.
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