“By earth and sky,” he exclaimed, “but that’s the most comical affair I have seen yet.  Comical! no, not a touch of comicality in it.  Zounds, is it possible that the, jade has coerced and beaten me?—­dared to beard the lion in his own den—­to strip him, as it were, of his claws, and to pull the very fangs out of his jaws, and, after all, to walk away in triumph?  Hang me, but I must have a strong touch of the coward in me or I would not have knuckled as I did to the jade.  Yet, hold—­can I, or ought I to be angry with her, when I know that this hellish racket all proceeded from her love to Helen.  Hang me, but she’s a precious bit of goods, and I’ll contrive to make her a present, somehow, for her courage.  Beat me! by sun and sky she did.”

He then proceeded to Helen’s chamber, and ordered her attendants out of the room; but, on looking at her, he felt surprised to perceive that her complexion, instead of being pale, was quite flushed, and her eyes flashing with a strange wild light that he had never seen in them before.

“Helen,” said he, “what’s the matter, love? are you unwell?”

She placed her two snowy hands on her temples, and pressed them tightly, as if striving to compress her brain and bring it within the influence of reason.

“I fear you are unwell, darling,” he continued; “you look flushed and feverish.  Don’t, however, be alarmed; if you’re not well, I’d see that knave of a fellow hanged before I’d marry you to him, and you in that state.  The thing’s out of the question, my darling Helen, and must not be done.  No:  God forbid that I should be the means of murdering my own child.”

So much, we may fairly presume, proceeded from the pithy lecture of Ellen Connor; but the truth was, that the undefinable old squire was the greatest parental coward in the world.  In the absence of his daughter he would rant and swear and vapor, strike the ground with his staff, and give other indications of the most extraordinary resolution, combined with fiery passion, that seemed alarming.  No sooner, however, did he go into her presence, and contemplate not only her wonderful beauty, but her goodness, her tenderness and affection for himself, than the bluster departed from him, his resolution fell, his courage oozed away, and he felt that he was fairly subdued, under which circumstances he generally entered into a new treaty of friendship and affection with the enemy.

Helen’s head was aching dreadfully, and she felt feverish and distracted.  Her father’s words, however, and the affection which they expressed, went to her heart; she threw her arms about him, kissed him, and was relieved by a copious flood of tears.

“Papa,” she said, “you are both kind and good; surely you wouldn’t kill your poor Helen?”

“Me kill you, Helen!—­oh, no, faith.  If Whitecraft were hanged to-morrow it wouldn’t give me half so much pain as if your little finger ached.”

Just at this progress of the dialogue a smart and impatient knock came to the door.