Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he drew his sword and rushed straight at his adversary, purposing to kill him.
Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, which he found no time to draw.

In his hand, however, he carried a stout holly staff shod with iron, and, while Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed, on this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it was, parried and turned it.

Then, before the man could strike again, that staff was up, and Peter had leapt upon him.

It fell with fearful force, breaking the Scotchman's shoulder and sending him reeling back.
"Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!" shouted the spectators.
But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad with rage at the insult that had been offered to Margaret.

Up flew the iron-tipped staff again, and down it came, this time full on Andrew's head, which it shattered like an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead.
For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken a tragic turn.
Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing at the prostrate form: "Name of God! our mate is done for.