'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!'
'O! 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 forever, 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 seamed 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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