“In the name of heaven, John,” said they, “what has happened to put you in such a state as you’re in?”

“I can’t tell you,” he replied; “if you knew it, you’d blush with burnin’ shame—­you’d curse me in your heart.  For my part, I’d rather be dead fifty times over than livin’, after what has happened this night.”

“An’ why not tell us, Lamh Laudher?”

“I can’t father; I couldn’t stand upright afore you and spake it.  I’d sink like a guilty man in your presence; an’ except you want to drive me distracted, or perjured, don’t ask me another question about it.  You’ll hear it too soon.”

“Well, we must wait,” said the father; “but I’m sure, John, you’d not do anything unbecomin’ a man.  For my part, I’m not unasy on your account, for except to take an affront from a Neil, there’s nothing you would do could shame me.”

This was a’ fresh stab to the son’s wounded pride, for which he was not prepared.  With a stifled groan he leaped to his feet, and rushing from the kitchen, bolted himself up in his bed-room.

His parents, after he had withdrawn, exchanged glances.

“That went home to him,” said the father; “an’ as sure as death, the Neils are in it, whatever it is.  But by the crass that saved us, if he tuck an affront from any of them, without payin’ them home double, he is no son of mine, an’ this roof won’t cover him another night.  Howsomever we’ll see in the morn-in’, plase God!”

The mother, who was proud of his courage and prowess, scouted with great indignation the idea of her son’s tamely putting up with an insult from any of the opposite faction.

“Is it he bear an affront from a Neil! arrah, don’t make a fool of yourself, old man!  He’d die sooner.  I’d stake my life on him.”

The night advanced, and the family had retired to bed; but their son attempted in vain to sleep.  A sense of shame overpowered him keenly.  He tossed and turned, and groaned, at the contemplation of the disgrace which he knew would be heaped on him the following day.  What was to be done?  How was he to wipe it off?  There was but one method, he believed, of getting his hands once more free; that was to seek Ellen, and gain her permission to retract his oath on that very night.  With this purpose he instantly dressed, himself, and quietly unbolting his own door, and that of the kitchen, got another staff, and passed out to seek her father’s inn.

The night had now become dark, but mild and agreeable; the repose of man and nature was deep, and save his own tumultuous thoughts every thing breathed an air of peace and rest.  At a quick but cautious pace he soon reached the inn, and without much difficulty passed into the garden, from which he hoped to be able to make himself known to Ellen.  In this, to his great mortification, he was disappointed; the room in which she slept, being on the third story, presented a window, it is true, to the garden; but