The shadow was gone from his face now.

In the heat of the battle he had no thought left for himself.
His kinsmen and clansmen were about him.

He was ever in the van.
One young chieftain with some twenty followers was on the top of the rampart, hacking and hewing at those behind, as if possessed of superhuman strength.

The Highlanders, with their strange cries and yells, pressed ever on and on.

But the raking fire from behind the abattis swept their ranks, mowed them down, and strewed the ground with dying and dead.
Like a rock stood Campbell of Inverawe, his eyes everywhere, directing, encouraging, cheering on his men, who needed not his words to inspire them with unquenchable fury.
Suddenly his tall figure swayed forward.