- 139 min
- 42 Views
A day, maybe two.
They're gone, Rob, and the beasts sold.
There's a wee glen|on the other side of Ben Duh.
If I were tinkers|with a two-day start,
I'd lie there and kill me some meat.
Not stood here, we won't.
Aye, if they fought|as strong as they smelled,
we'd be in trouble.
We can rush them when they're asleep.
Nine. One of them's a woman.
Half of them would be dead|before they were awake.
How will we take them, Rob?
I'll talk to them in the morning.
chasing other men's cattle.
Come away|to the Americas with me.
They say there's fine acres|for the clearing in Virginia.
Why are you going in|to talk to them?
I know one of them.
Get up, you bunch of ragged-arsed|tinker cow thieves!
...Marquis of Montrose.
Still at your thieving.
Throw down now,|and I'll spare you, all but one.
By God, McGregor,|if there's any killing to be done,
you're the first.
And I know you're a bigger thief|than any of us.
Aye, but if I had stolen|His Lordship's cattle,
I can call the Gregorach|and kill the half of ya,
- Ha!|- Think on it, man.
Would you not rather|be dead after a good hump
or have me march you|back to Montrose
Throw down! Now!
And you have my word|no-one else will die!
Any man with a blade in his hands,
cut him down.
Are ye men,
or what are ye?
And him as much an outlaw|as any of you!
Listen to me well,|and remember this:
have a care they're not|under my protection.
You're stealing from me,|Robert Roy McGregor.
No man who steals my beasts|makes a profit.
If you doubt me, ask Tam Sibbald.
What will you do with her?
Be on your way and tell no man|you fared ill at our hands.
Cut him down!
Montrose, come hotfoot|from the court to the cockpit.
His Grace, the Duke of Argyll.
I am Your Grace's humble servant.
Another of your likely lads?
Archibald is sent me by his mother
in the hope that our climate|might cool the fever in his blood.
So, Mr Cunningham,
Or are you a buggerer of boys?
It is years, Your Grace,|since I buggered a boy.
And in my own defence,|I thought him a girl
at the moment of entry.
What say you, Guthrie,
that Archie|could not tell arse from quim?
Many Englishmen|have that same difficulty.
Oh, spoken as well as you fought.
Did you see Guthrie here at work,|Mr Cunningham?
He has a fair hand with the cleaver.
If I had to kill an ox, a claymore|would be my first choice, Your Grace.
Translate and read this script in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Український (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)