Guy Rivers himself interposed to allay, and otherwise direct their fury.  The cunning ruffian well knew that Forrester would stand by the youth, and unwilling to incur any risk, where the game in another way seemed so secure, he succeeded in quieting the party, by claiming to himself the privilege, on the part of his wounded honor, of a fair field with one who had so grievously assailed it.  Taking the landlord aside, therefore, they discussed various propositions for taking the life of one hateful to the one person and dangerous to them all.  Munro was now not unwilling to recognise the necessity of taking him off; and without entering into the feelings of Rivers, which were almost entirely personal, he gave his assent to the deed, the mode of performing which was somewhat to depend upon circumstances.  These will find their due development as we proceed.

In the meanwhile, Ralph had returned to the village-inn, encountering, at the first step, upon entering the threshold, the person of the very interesting girl, almost the only redeeming spirit of that establishment.  She had heard of the occurrence—­as who, indeed, had not—­and the first expression of her face as her eyes met those of Ralph, though with a smile, had in it something of rebuke for not having taken the counsel which she had given him on his departure from the place of prayer.  With a gentleness strictly in character, he conversed with her for some time on indifferent topics—­surprised at every uttered word from her lips—­so musical, so true to the modest weaknesses of her own, yet so full of the wisdom and energy which are the more legitimate characteristics of the other sex.  At length she brought him back to the subject of the recent strife.

“You must go from this place, Mr. Colleton—­you are not safe in this house—­in this country.  You can now travel without inconvenience from your late injuries, which do not appear to affect you; and the sooner you are gone the better for your safety.  There are those here”—­and she looked around with a studious caution as she spoke, while her voice sunk into a whisper—­“who only wait the hour and the opportunity to”—­and here her voice faltered as if she felt the imagined prospect—­“to put you to a merciless death.  Believe me, and in your confident strength do not despise my warnings.  Nothing but prudence and flight can save you.”

“Why,” said the youth, smiling, and taking her hand in reply, “why should I fear to linger in a region, where one so much more alive to its sternnesses than myself may yet dare to abide?  Think you, sweet Lucy, that I am less hardy, less fearless of the dangers and the difficulties of this region than yourself?  You little know how much at this moment my spirit is willing to encounter,” and as he spoke, though his lips wore a smile, there was a stern sadness in his look, and a gloomy contraction of his brow, which made the expression one of the fullest melancholy.

The girl looked upon him with an eye full of a deep, though unconscious interest.  She seemed desirous of searching into that spirit which he had described as so reckless.  Withdrawing her hand suddenly, however, as if now for the first time aware of its position, she replied hastily:—­