“Mother,” said he, “if I could I—­Oh! no, no.  Now, it’s too late—­if I didn’t fight him, I’d be a perjured man.  You know,” he added, smiling, “there’s something in a Lamh Laudher’s blow, as well as in the Dead Boxer’s.  Isn’t it said, that a Lamh Laudher needn’t strike two blows, when he sends his strength with one.”

He stretched out his powerful arm, as he spoke, with a degree of pride, not unbecoming his youth, spirit, and amazing strength and activity.

“Do not,” he added, “either vex me, or sink my spirits.  I’m sworn, an’ I’ll fight him.  That’s my mind, and it will not change.”

The whole party felt, by the energy and decision with which he spoke the last words, that he was immovable.  His resolution filled them with melancholy, and an absolute sense of death.  They left him, therefore, in silence, with the exception of his parents, whose grief was bitter and excessive.

When the Dead Boxer heard that he had been challenged, he felt more chagrin than satisfaction, for his avarice was disappointed; but when he understood from those members of the corporation who waited on him, that Lamh Laudher was the challenger, the livid fire of mingled rage and triumph which blazed in his large bloodshot eyes absolutely frightened the worthy burghers.

“I’m glad of that,” said he—­“here, Joe, I desire you to go and get a coffin made, six feet long and properly wide—­we will give him room enough; tehee! tehee! tehee!—­ah! tehee! tehee! tehee!  I’m glad, gentlemen.  Herr! agh! tehee! tehee!  I’m glad, I’m glad.”

In this manner did he indulge in the wild and uncouth glee of a savage as ferocious as he was powerful.

“We have a quare proverb here, Misther Black,” said one of the worthy burghers, “that, be my sowl, may be you never heard!”

“Tehee! tehee! agh!  What is that?” said the Boxer, showing his white teeth and blubber lips in a furious grin, whilst the eyes which he fastened on the poor burgher blazed up once more, as if he was about to annihilate him.

“What is it, sar?”

“Faith,” said the burgher, making towards the door, “I’ll tell you that when I’m the safe side o’ the room—­devil a ha’porth bar-rin’ that neither you nor any man ought to reckon your chickens before they are hatched.  Make money of that;” and after having discharged this pleasantry at the black, the worthy burgher made a hasty exit down stairs, followed at a more dignified pace by his companions.

The Dead Boxer, in preparing for battle, observed a series of forms peculiar to himself, which were certainly of an appalling character.  As a proof that the challenge was accepted, he ordered a black flag, which he carried about with him, to wave from a window of the inn, a circumstance which thrilled all who saw it with an awful certainty of Lamh Laudher’s death.  He then gave order for the drums to be beaten, and a dead march to be played before him, whilst he walked slowly up the town and back, conversing occasionally with some of those who immediately surrounded him.  When he arrived nearly opposite the market-house, some person pointed out to him a small hut that stood in a situation isolated from the other houses of the street.