DOL BEAG LAUGHS.
To town-bred folk the country in the winter time is an arid waste.
There is no throng of folk, no lighted ways, nor much amusement by
their way of it; but to the countryman the winter is the time--the long
dark nights for ceilidhing, the days after the rabbits and hares, and
the cosiness about a steading, with the beasts at their straw and
turnips, and the lassies to be coming home with, and the old stories
that will make the hair rise on a man's head. Och, these are the
nights to be enjoying.
I would whiles take a stick and the dogs and over the hill for it to
McKinnon's for a crack with Ronald and Mirren, and then we would go to
the Quay Inn and listen to the singing, or talk to McGilp--for McGilp
had left the sea and settled at McKelvie's, where he was very much
respected as a moneyed man, having sold the _Seagull_ to McNeilage, his
mate. He was much exercised by the morals of the place, and very
religious, except when in drink, which would be mostly every night.
On such a night, with Ronald and myself at the table and McGilp
opposite, the door opened, and in came Bryde and Hugh with a cold swirl
of sleet, and sat down beside us, and Robin McKelvie brought their
drink, and old McKelvie came ben to be doing the honours. We were
close by the fire, for McGilp liked to be hearing the sough of the wind
in the lum, and him snug and warm. On the other side of the fire was
Dol Beag, a man well over fifty, very silent, and I could not thole the
look of his crooked back. But there was with him one of his own
kidney, and he began to let his tongue wag.
"We had many's the ploy in the old days," says he, "and wild nights
too. It will chust be twenty years off an' on since I was swundged
behin' that fire like a sheep's heid--yes.
"I will haf forgotten what ploy that was--I was aalways fighting."
"Dol Beag, can ye no' be quate before dacent folk?" said Ronald.
"Ou ay, Ronald, I was chust thinking of the old ploys--I see you have
strangers with you."
Then he turned to Bryde--
"You will be a stronger man than your father, and he wass a fine man,
but you would kill a man too. Yes, but we will not be talking of
killing when it's the lassies you will be thinking about, and I'm
hearing the southern leddy is very chief with you," and he sniggered
and went out.
"God's blood," said Hugh in a white rage, "do you let any drunken rogue
blackguard a lady?"
"I am not to be touching that man," said Bryde, and his face was dark
red.
"Have I to live to see one of my name a coward--a bastard and a coward?"
"By the living God, you lie, Hugh McBride," said Bryde through his
teeth, and struck Hugh on the mouth with the back of his hand.
"That will be all that is needful," says Hugh with a bow; "there's a
yard outside, and maybe McKelvie will be giving us a couple of
lanthorns."
Never a word said Bryde, but the breath whistled through his nostrils,
and we made our way through the kitchen, for it was easier to stop the
big burn in spate than these two. There were cutlasses on the wall
crossed like the sign of a battle on a map, and Hugh had them down.
"I think they are marrows," says he, trying to be calm, but his very
voice shook with rage.
"Outside," said Bryde.
There was a puddly yard, squelched with the feet of cow beasts. The
scad of light from the door and the two lanterns lit up the yellow
trampled glaur, and both the boys stripped in silence and stood on
guard, and then started.
McGilp and McKinnon and the McKelvies were there only, and if these had
not been my own boys I could have enjoyed the business, for they were
matched to a hair, and tireless as tigers.
The blue blades sprang from cut to parry like live things, and in the
light I saw the same cruel smile, line for line, in both faces. The
snow was falling in big wet flakes, and the fight went on, neither
giving an inch, and then from behind came a thin voice--
"The McBrides are at it, hammer and tongs--the Laird and the bastard,
te-he," cried Dol Beag from the dark.
At that word Bryde's blade seemed to waver an instant, and Hugh's bit
into his thigh, but like a flash I saw Bryde recover, and a lightning
stroke and Hugh's cutlass was clattering on the cobbles, and then I saw
Bryde whirl his sword round his head, and raise himself uplifted for a
dreadful blow that would have cleft his cousin to the chest, and the
cruel smile was still on both faces, and then Bryde stopped.
"It's no' true, Hughie," said he, and lowered his hand and walked back
to the kitchen, swayed a minute, and thrust his arms out blindly, and
fell on the flagstones.
"Have I killed him, Hamish?" cried Hugh--"have I killed Bryde? God,
what will Margaret say to this?"
"I do not know what you have done," said I. "It would be maybe better
if he is dead, for I think you will have killed his spirit."
We would have had him to bed in the inn, but he came to himself.
"Hamish," said he, "take me home to my"--and in a brave voice--"to my
mother."
And Hugh went out of the room, and I knew he would never be a boy again.
McKelvie's wife was at the doctoring of the wound with her concoctions,
and I made what job I could of it, and then we put Bryde in a peat
creel, with straw and blankets, and took him to his mother.
"It was just a daft prank," said he to Belle, who leant over him like
some wild fierce creature. "It was just a mad ploy, mother."