His daring character was in no degree checked by
this unexpected opposition.
"Follow me, my lads!" he called to his men; "never let it be said that we
turned our backs before these canting roundheads!"
With that, as if inspired by the spirit of his ancestors, he shouted,
"Bothwell! Bothwell!" and throwing himself into the morass, he struggled
through it at the head of his party, and attacked that of Burley with
such fury, that he drove them back above a pistol-shot, killing three men
with his own hand. Burley, perceiving the consequences of a defeat on
this point, and that his men, though more numerous, were unequal to the
regulars in using their arms and managing their horses, threw himself
across Bothwell's way, and attacked him hand to hand. Each of the
combatants was considered as the champion of his respective party, and a
result ensued more usual in romance than in real story. Their followers,
on either side, instantly paused, and looked on as if the fate of the day
were to be decided by the event of the combat between these two redoubted
swordsmen. The combatants themselves seemed of the same opinion; for,
after two or three eager cuts and pushes had been exchanged, they paused,
as if by joint consent, to recover the breath which preceding exertions
had exhausted, and to prepare for a duel in which each seemed conscious
he had met his match.
[Illustration: The Duel--230]
"You are the murdering villain, Burley," said Bothwell, griping his sword
firmly, and setting his teeth close--"you escaped me once, but"--(he
swore an oath too tremendous to be written down)--"thy head is worth its
weight of silver, and it shall go home at my saddle-bow, or my saddle
shall go home empty for me.
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