'Impossible.'
'He did, sir,' answered Mac-Ivor; 'so, either draw and defend yourself,
or resign your pretensions to the lady.'
'This is absolute madness,' exclaimed Waverley, 'or some strange
mistake!'
'Oh! no evasion! draw your sword!' said the infuriated Chieftain,--his
own already unsheathed.
'Must I fight in a madman's quarrel?'
'Then give up now, and for ever, all pretensions to Miss Bradwardine's
hand.'
'What title have you,' cried Waverley, utterly losing command of
himself,--'What title have you, or any man living, to dictate such terms
to me?' And he also drew his sword.
At this moment the Baron of Bradwardine, followed by several of his
troop, came up on the spur, some from curiosity, others to take part in
the quarrel, which they indistinctly understood had broken out between
the Mac-Ivors and their corps. The clan, seeing them approach, put
themselves in motion to support their Chieftain, and a scene of
confusion commenced, which seemed likely to terminate in bloodshed.
A hundred tongues were in motion at once. The Baron lectured, the
Chieftain stormed, the Highlanders screamed in Gaelic, the horsemen
cursed and swore in Lowland Scotch.
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