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Now, chieftain, we the gate have pass'd,—the bound That did restrain us. Host and guest no more, But deadly foes we stand, who from this spot Shall never both with life depart. Now, turn, And boldly say to him, if so thou darest, Who calls thee villain, murd'rer, traitor, coward, That he belies thee. Turn then, chief of Mull! Here, man to man, my single arm to thine, I give thee battle; or, refusing this, Our captive here retain thee to be tried Before the summon'd vassals of our clans, As suits thy rank and thine atrocious deeds. Take thou thy choice.

Yes, John of Lorne, I turn. This turf on which we tread my death-bed is; This hour my latest term; this sky of light The last that I shall look on. Draw thy sword: The guilt of many crimes overwhelms my spirit; But never will I shame my brave Macleans, By dying, as their chief, a coward's death.

What! shalt thou fight alone, and we stand by