He then relinquished his grasp with a deep and suppressed groan, and both combatants started to their feet.

Bothwell's right hand dropped helpless by his side, but his left griped to the place where his dagger hung; it had escaped from the sheath in the struggle,--and, with a look of mingled rage and despair, he stood totally defenceless, as Balfour, with a laugh of savage joy, flourished his sword aloft, and then passed it through his adversary's body.

Bothwell received the thrust without falling--it had only grazed on his ribs.

He attempted no farther defence, but, looking at Burley with a grin of deadly hatred, exclaimed--"Base peasant churl, thou hast spilt the blood of a line of kings!" "Die, wretch!--die!" said Balfour, redoubling the thrust with better aim; and, setting his foot on Bothwell's body as he fell, he a third time transfixed him with his sword.--"Die, bloodthirsty dog! die as thou hast lived!--die, like the beasts that perish--hoping nothing--believing nothing--" "And fearing nothing!" said Bothwell, collecting the last effort of respiration to utter these desperate words, and expiring as soon as they were spoken.
To catch a stray horse by the bridle, throw himself upon it, and rush to the assistance of his followers, was, with Burley, the affair of a moment.

And as the fall of Bothwell had given to the insurgents all the courage of which it had deprived his comrades, the issue of this partial contest did not remain long undecided.