THE DUEL.
Sir James drew up his tall and soldier-like figure to its full
height, and buttoning to the throat his long-skirted scarlet coat,
the breast of which was covered with broad bars of silver lace, he
fixed his keen dark eyes steadily on the figure of Rob Roy. He then
levelled a pistol at the full length of his right arm, and every eye
was bent upon the muzzle from which death was expected to issue.
Rob's coat was of rough, home-made, brown stuff, destitute of lace or
ornament; but his great belted plaid of scarlet tartan filled up the
eye. His pistols were bright as silver, and came from the famous
workshop established at Doune, so long ago as 1646, by Thomas Cadell.
A silver chain suspended his splendidly carved powder-horn, and his
dirk and broadsword were elaborately mounted with silver. Sir James
covered him with his pistol and fired!
A shout of rage and dismay burst from the MacGregors, as Rob's bonnet
was turned round on his head, and, cut by the bullet, one of his
eagle feathers floated away on the breeze.
"That was a good shot, Sir James," said Rob, smiling, as he replaced
his bonnet; "an inch lower, and there would have been one MacGregor
less in the world to persecute. Under favour, sir, it is now my
turn."
Raising one of the claw-butted, steel, Highland pistols, he cocked
and levelled it straight at the head of Livingstone, whose eye never
quailed, and whose gallant spirit never flinched. Then suddenly
lowering the weapon, he said, "One cannot always be a hero like
Fingal, but one may always be a gentleman. I am, as you know, Sir
James, a deadly shot, and at this moment could kill you without
reloading. I have no desire to slay men unnecessarily--brave men
like you, who may live to serve their mother, Scotland, least of all!
In short, I wish to spare you; but as the creagh must belong to him
who sheds the first blood, I must send this bullet either through
your head or your hand. If you prefer the latter, please to hold it
up."
Scarcely knowing what he did, Sir James held up his left hand. Rob
fired, and his bullet whistled through the palm of the upheld hand,
which was instantly covered with blood, when Livingstone uttered an
exclamation of pain and suddenly lowered his arm.
"We now part on the first blood drawn--your own terms, Livingstone.
To the hills, lads!" exclaimed MacGregor; "to the hills with the gear
of the Dutch king's rebel Whigs!"
A yell of triumph from the MacGregors rent the sky, the pipes struck
up "The Battle of Glenfruin," and the whole cavalcade moved off
towards the mountains. But the matter did not end here, for as Rob
tarried a moment, to take a more courteous farewell of his adversary,
and to bind up his wounded hand, Livingstone's liveried valet
levelled a pistol at his head. Fortunately it flashed in the pan;
and MacAleister, who was close by, shot him dead with his musket!
"Only one man, a servant to Sir James Livingstone, was killed on this
occasion," says the statistical account; "and this depredation was
remembered by the fathers of several persons still living, and is
known as the 'Her'ship of Kippen.'"
It does not appear that any means were taken to recover the cattle
and goods thus carried to the fastnesses of the MacGregors; but at
this time the whole Highlands, from the German to the Atlantic Ocean,
were full of those scenes of war and plunder which succeeded the
victory of the loyal clans at Killycrankie, and the fall of their
idol, the gallant Dundee.