wife had returned.  The man retired to ascertain, and the Boxer walked backwards and forwards in a state of mind easily conceived, muttering curses and vows of vengeance against her and Lamh Laudher.  After some minutes he was informed that she had not returned, upon which he gave orders that on the very instant of her appearance at the inn, she should be sent to him.  The waiter’s story in this instance was incorrect; but the wife’s apprehension of his violence, overcame every other consideration, and she resolved for some time to avoid him.  He had, in fact, on more than one occasion openly avowed his jealousy of her and O’Rorke, and that in a manner which made the unhappy woman tremble for her life.  She felt, therefore, from what had just occurred at Widow Rorke’s cabin, that she must separate herself from him, especially as he was susceptible neither of reason nor remonstrance.  Every thing conspired to keep his bad passions in a state of tumult.  Nell M’Collum, whom he wished to consult once more upon the recovery of his money, could not be found.  This, too, galled him; for avarice, except during the whirlwind of jealousy, was the basis of his character—­the predominant passion of his heart.  After cooling a little, he called for his servant, who had been in the habit of acting for him in the capacity of second, and began, with his assistance, to make preparations for to-morrow’s battle.

CHAPTER VII.

Nothing now could exceed the sympathy which was felt for young Lamh Laudher, yet except among his immediate friends, there was little exertion made to prevent him from accelerating his own fate.  So true is it that public feeling scruples not to gratify its appetite for excitement, even at the risk or actual cost of human life.  His parents and relations mourned him as if he had been already dead.  The grief of his mother had literally broken down her voice so much, that from hoarseness, she was almost unintelligible.  His aged father sat and wept like a child; and it was in vain that any of their friends attempted to console them.  During the latter part of the day, every melancholy stroke of the death bell pierced their hearts; the dead march, too, and the black flag waving, as if in triumph over the lifeless body of their only son, the principal support of their declining years, filled them with a gloom and terror, which death, in its common shape, would not have inspired.  This savage pageant on the part, of the Dead Boxer, besides being calculated to daunt the heart of any man who might accept his challenge, was a cruel mockery of the solemnities of death.  In this instance it produced such a sensation as never had been felt in that part of the country.  An uneasy feeling of wild romance, mingled with apprehension, curiosity, fear, and amazement, all conspired to work upon the imaginations of a people in whom that quality is exuberant, until the general excitement became absolutely painful.