The hauberk and plaid of Wallace were dyed from head to foot; his own brave blood, and the ferocious stream from his enemies, mingled in one horrid hue upon his garments.
"Wallace! Wallace!" cried the stentorian lungs of Kirkpatrick.

In a moment Wallace was at his side, and found him wrestling with two men.
The light of a single lamp, suspended from the rafters, fell direct upon the combatants.

A dagger was pointed at the life of the old knight, but Wallace laid the holder of it dead across the body of his intended victim, and catching the other assailant by the throat, threw him prostrate to the ground.
"Spare me, for the honor of knighthood!" cried the conquered.
"For my honor you shall die!" cried Kirkpatrick.

His sword was already at the heart of the Englishman.

Wallace beat it back.