The man, whom we need not name to the reader, now stood in the centre of his “desolate hearth,” and it was indeed a fearful thing to contemplate the change which the last few minutes had produced on his appearance.  His countenance ceased to manifest any expression of either grief or sorrow; his brows became knit, and fell with savage and determined gloom, not unmingled with fury, over his eyes, that now blazed like coals of lire.  His lips, too, became tight and firm, and were pressed closely together, unconsciously and without effort.  In this mood, we say, he gazed about him, his heart smote with sorrow and affliction, whilst it boiled with indignation and fury.  “Thomas Gourlay,” he exclaimed—­“villain—­oppressor—­murdherer—­devil—­this is your work! but I here entreat the Almighty God “—­he droppe’d on his knees as he spoke—­“never to suffer you to lave this world till he taches you that he can take vengeance for the poor.”  Looking around him once more, he lit a longer rushlight, and placed it in the little wooden candlestick, which had a slit at the top, into which the rush was pressed.  Proceeding then to the lower corner of the cabin, he put up his hand to the top of the side wall, from which he took down a large stick, or cudgel, having a strong leathern thong in the upper part, within about six inches of the top.  Into this thong he thrust his hand, and twisting it round his wrist, in order that no accident or chance blow might cause him to lose his grip of it, he once more looked upon this scene of unexampled wretchedness and sorrow, and pulling his old caubeen over his brow, left the cabin.

It is altogether impossible to describe the storm of conflicting passions and emotions that raged and jostled against each other within him.  Sorrow—­a sense of relief—­on behalf of those so dear to him, who had been rescued from such misery; the love which he bore them now awakened into tenfold affection and tenderness by their loss; the uncertain fate of his other little brood, who were ill, but still living; then the destitution—­the want of all that could nourish or sustain them—­the furious ravenings of famine, which he himself felt—­and the black, hopeless, impenetrable future—­all crowded, upon his heart, swept through his frantic imagination, and produced those maddening but unconscious impulses, under the influence of which great crimes are frequently committed, almost before their perpetrator is aware of his having committed them.

Trailcudgel, on leaving his cabin, cared not whither he went; but, by one of those instincts which direct the savage to the peculiar haunts where its prey may be expected, and guides the stupid drunkard to his own particular dwelling, though unconscious even of his very existence at the time—­like either, or both, of these, he went on at as rapid a pace as his weakness would permit, being quite ignorant of his whereabouts until he felt himself on the great highway.  He looked at the sky now with an interest he had never felt before.  The night was exceedingly dark, but calm and warm.  An odd star here and there presented itself, and he felt glad at this, for it removed the monotony of the darkness.