21
There were the grave, low sounds of men engaged in busy traffic, with the laugh, the song, and the riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. Among the last was Harry Wakefield, who amidst a grinning group of smock-frocks, hob-nailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was trolling forth the old ditty,
“What though my name be Roger,
Who drives the plough and cart—”
when he was interrupted by a well-known voice, saying in a high and stern voice, marked by the sharp Highland accent, “Harry Waakfelt——if you be a man, stand up!” What is the matter?——what is it ?” the guests demanded of each other. “It is only a d———d Scotsman,” said Fleecebumpkin, who was by this time very drunk, “whom Harry Wakefield helped to his broth to-day, who is now come to have his cauld kail hett again.” “Harry Waakfelt,” repeated the same ominous summons, “stand up, if you be a man!”
There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated passion, which attracts attention and imposes awe, even by the very sound. The guests shrunk back on every side, and gazed at the Highlander, as he stood in the middle of them, his brows bent, and his features rigid with resolution. “I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness. It is not the fault of your heart, man, that you don’t know how to clench your hands.”
By this time he stood opposite to his antagonist; his open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted with the stern purpose, which gleamed wild, dark, and vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander. “’Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight more than a school-girl.” “I can fight,” answered Robin Oig sternly, but calmly, “and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight——I show on now how the Highland Dunniewassal fights.”
