Mary: I love the bones of you, Robert McGregor, but you take too much to heart that canna' be helped.
Archibald Cunningham: He's a fair hand with a cleaver, it must be said.
Duke of Argyll: Oh, you do not think much of our highland weapons?
Archibald Cunningham: If I had to slaughter an ox, your grace, a Claymore would be my first choice.
Will Guthrie: You'd best use a musket. Save the beast a slow dying.
Archibald Cunningham: I would not need a musket for you, Guthrie.
Montrose: Great men, such as yourself, draw rumors as shite draws flies.
Duke of Argyll: You are the shite, Montrose, and the flies upon it.
Referee: You are here on a matter of honor. I am here to see that you settle it honorably. There will be no back-stabbing, you will not throw your blades, nor will you use weapons other than those agreed. If quarter should be asked.
Robert Roy MacGregor: No quarter will be asked.
Archibald Cunningham: Or given.
Robert Roy MacGregor: What passes for honor with me is likely the same as what passes with Your Lordship. When my word is given, it is good.
Montrose: Well, you are to be congratulated on such cheaply-bought nobility.
Mary: You look bemused.
Betty: No worse bemused than I deserve, Mrs. MacGregor. For I have a bastard's bastard in me. And no home for him when he comes out.