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." "Yes," replied Burley, with stern and gloomy deliberation, "I am that John Balfour, who promised to lay thy head where thou shouldst never lift it again; and God do so unto me, and more also, if I do not redeem my word!" "Then a bed of heather, or a thousand merks!" said Bothwell, striking at Burley with his full force.
"The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!" answered Balfour, as he parried and returned the blow.
There have seldom met two combatants more equally matched in strength of body, skill in the management of their weapons and horses, determined courage, and unrelenting hostility.

After exchanging many desperate blows, each receiving and inflicting several wounds, though of no great consequence, they grappled together as if with the desperate impatience of mortal hate, and Bothwell, seizing his enemy by the shoulder-belt, while the grasp of Balfour was upon his own collar, they came headlong to the ground.

The companions of Burley hastened to his assistance, but were repelled by the dragoons, and the battle became again general.

But nothing could withdraw the attention of the combatants from each other, or induce them to unclose the deadly clasp in which they rolled together on the ground, tearing, struggling, and foaming, with the inveteracy of thorough-bred bull-dogs.
Several horses passed over them in the melee without their quitting hold of each other, until the sword-arm of Bothwell was broken by the kick of a charger.