"Glengarry!" he seized the nearest shrinking Frenchman, lifted him high,
and hurled him smashing into the bottles behind the counter. His men,
following him, bounded like tigers on their prey. A few minutes of
fierce, eager fighting, and the Glengarry men were all freed and on
their feet, all except Black Hugh, who lay groaning in his corner.
"Hold, lads!" Macdonald Bhain cried, in his mighty voice. "Stop, I'm
telling you." The fighting ceased.

"Dan Murphy!" he cried, casting his eye round the room, "where are you,
ye son of Belial?"

Murphy, crouching at the back of the crowd near the door, sought to
escape.

"Ah! there you are!" cried Macdonald, and reaching through the crowd
with his great, long arm, he caught Murphy by the hair of the head and
dragged him forward.

"R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t!" he snarled, shaking him till
his teeth rattled. "It is yourself that is the cause of this wickedness.
Now, may the Lord have mercy on your soul." With one hand he gripped
Murphy by the throat, holding him at arm's length, and raised his huge
fist to strike. But before the blow fell he paused.

"No!" he muttered, in a disappointed tone, "it is not good enough. I
will not be demeaning myself. Hence, you r-r-a-a-t!" As he spoke he
lifted the shaking wretch as if he had been a bundle of clothes, swung
him half round and hurled him crashing through the window.

"Is there no goot man here at all who will stand before me?" he raged