"He's no there, Wullie! He's no there!" He jumped down from the gate. Throwing all caution to the winds, he reeled recklessly across the yard. The drunken delirium of battle was on him. The fever of anticipated. victory flushed his veins. At length he would. take toll for the injuries of years.
Another moment, and he was in front of the good oak door, battering at it madly with clubbed weapon, yelling, dancing, screaming vengeance.
"Where is he? What's he at? Come and tell me that, James Moore! Come doon, I say, ye coward! Come and meet me like a. man!"
'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce has aften led-- Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!'
The soft moonlight streamed down on the white-haired madman thundering at the door, screaming his war-song.
The quiet farmyard, startled from its sleep, awoke in an uproar. Cattle shifted in their stalls; horses whinnied; fowls chattered, aroused by the din and dull thudding of the blows:. and above the rest, loud and piercing, the. shrill cry of a terrified child.
Maggie, wakened from a vivid dream of David chasing the police, hurried a shawl around her, and in a minute had the baby in her arms and was comforting her--vaguely fearing the while that the police were after David.
James Moore flung open a window, and, leaning out, looked down on the dishevelled figure below him.