“Ye would, would you, ye dog?” roared Big Mack. He closed his fingers into the Frenchman's gullet, and drew him up to strike, but on every side hands reached for him and stayed his blow. Then he lost himself. With a yell of rage he jambed his man back into the crowd, sinking his fingers deeper and deeper into his enemy's throat till his face grew black and his head fell over on one side. But it was a fatal move for Mack, and overcome by numbers that crowded upon him, he went down fighting wildly and bearing the Frenchman beneath him. The Glengarry line was broken. Black Hugh saw Mack's peril, and knew that it meant destruction to all. With a wilder cry than usual, “Glengarry! Glengarry!” he dashed straight into LeNoir, who gave back swiftly, caught two men who were beating Big Mack's life out, and hurled them aside, and grasping his friend's collar, hauled him to his feet, and threw him back against the wall and into the line again with his grip still upon his Frenchman's throat.
“Let dead men go, Mack,” he cried, but even as he spoke LeNoir, seeing his opportunity, sprang at him and with a backward kick caught Macdonald fair in the face and lashed him hard against the wall. It was the terrible French 'lash' and was one of LeNoir's special tricks. Black Hugh, stunned and dazed, leaned back against the wall, spreading out his hands weakly before his face. LeNoir, seeing victory within his grasp, rushed in to finish off his special foe. But Yankee Jim, who, while engaged in cheerfully knocking back the two Murphys and others who took their turn at him, had been keeping an eye on the line of battle, saw Macdonald's danger, and knowing that the crisis had come, dashed across the line, crying “Follow me, boys.” His long arms swung round his head like the sails of a wind-mill, and men fell back from him as if they had been made of wood. As LeNoir sprang, Yankee shot fiercely at him, but the Frenchman, too quick for him, ducked and leaped upon Black Hugh, who was still swaying against the wall, bore him down and jumped with his heavy “corked” boots on his breast and face. Again the Glengarry line was broken. At once the crowd surged about the Glengarry men, who now stood back to back, beating off the men leaping at them from every side, as a stag beats off dogs, and still chanting high their dauntless cry, “Glengarry forever,” to which Big Mack added at intervals, “To hell with the Papishes!” Yankee, failing to check LeNoir's attack upon Black Hugh, fought off the men crowding upon him, and made his way to the corner where the Frenchman was still engaged in kicking the prostrate Highlander to death.
“Take that, you blamed cuss,” he said, catching LeNoir in the jaw and knocking his head with a thud against the wall. Before he could strike again he was thrown against his enemy, who clutched him and held like a vice.
CHAPTER II
VENGEANCE IS MINE
The Glengarry men had fought their fight, and it only remained for their foes to wreak their vengeance upon them and wipe out old scores. One minute more would have done for them, but in that minute the door came crashing in. There was a mighty roar, “Glengarry! Glengarry!” and the great Macdonald himself, with the boy Ranald and some half-dozen of his men behind him, stood among them. On all hands the fight stopped. A moment he stood, his great head and shoulders towering above the crowd, his tawny hair and beard falling around his face like a great mane, his blue eyes gleaming from under his shaggy eyebrows like livid lightning. A single glance around the room, and again raising his battle-cry, “Glengarry!” he seized the nearest shrinking Frenchman, lifted him high, and hurled him smashing into the bottles behind the counter. His men, following him, bounded like tigers on their prey. A few minutes of fierce, eager fighting, and the Glengarry men were all freed and on their feet, all except Black Hugh, who lay groaning in his corner. “Hold, lads!” Macdonald Bhain cried, in his mighty voice. “Stop, I'm telling you.” The fighting ceased.
“Dan Murphy!” he cried, casting his eye round the room, “where are you, ye son of Belial?”
Murphy, crouching at the back of the crowd near the door, sought to escape.
“Ah! there you are!” cried Macdonald, and reaching through the crowd with his great, long arm, he caught Murphy by the hair of the head and dragged him forward.
“R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t!” he snarled, shaking him till his teeth rattled. “It is yourself that is the cause of this wickedness. Now, may the Lord have mercy on your soul.” With one hand he gripped Murphy by the throat, holding him at arm's length, and raised his huge fist to strike. But before the blow fell he paused.
“No!” he muttered, in a disappointed tone, “it is not good enough. I will not be demeaning myself. Hence, you r-r-a-a-t!” As he spoke he lifted the shaking wretch as if he had been a bundle of clothes, swung him half round and hurled him crashing through the window.
“Is there no goot man here at all who will stand before me?” he raged in a wild, joyous fury. “Will not two of you come forth, then?” No one moved. “Come to me!” he suddenly cried, and snatching two of the enemy, he dashed their heads together, and threw them insensible on the floor.
Then he caught sight of his brother for the first time lying in the corner with Big Mack supporting his head, and LeNoir standing near.
“What is this? What is this?” he cried, striding toward LeNoir. “And is it you that has done this work?” he asked, in a voice of subdued rage.
“Oui!” cried LeNoir, stepping back and putting up his hands, “das me; Louis LeNoir! by Gar!” He struck himself on the breast as he spoke.
“Out of my way!” cried Macdonald, swinging his open hand on the Frenchman's ear. With a swift sweep he brushed LeNoir aside from his place, and ignoring him stooped over his brother. But LeNoir was no coward, and besides his boasted reputation was at stake. He thought he saw his chance, and rushing at Macdonald as he was bending over his brother, delivered his terrible 'lash'. But Macdonald had not lived with and fought with Frenchmen all these years without knowing their tricks and ways. He saw LeNoir's 'lash' coming, and quickly turning his head, avoided the blow.
“Ah! would ye? Take that, then, and be quate!” and so saying, he caught LeNoir on the side of the head and sent him to the floor.
“Keep him off a while, Yankee!” said Macdonald, for LeNoir was up again, and coming at him.
Then kneeling beside his brother he wiped the bloody froth that was oozing from his lips, and said in a low, anxious tone:
“Hugh, bhodaich (old man), are ye hurted? Can ye not speak to me, Hugh?”
“Oich-oh,” Black Hugh groaned. “It was a necessity—Donald man—and—he took me—unawares—with his—keeck.”
“Indeed, and I'll warrant you!” agreed his brother, “but I will be attending to him, never you fear.”
Macdonald was about to rise, when his brother caught his arm.
“You will—not be—killing him,” he urged, between his painful gasps, “because I will be doing that myself some day, by God's help.”
His words and the eager hate in his face seemed to quiet Macdonald.
“Alas! alas!” he said, sadly, “it is not allowed me to smite him as he deserves—'Vengeance is mine saith the Lord,' and I have solemnly promised the minister not to smite for glory or for revenge! Alas! alas!”
Then turning to LeNoir, he said, gravely: “It is not given me to punish you for your coward's blow. Go from me!” But LeNoir misjudged him.
“Bah!” he cried, contemptuously, “you tink