“Let me go—­let me not hear him speak!  His breath is pollution—­his words are full of foul threats and dreadful thoughts.  If you knew all that I know—­if you feared what I fear, uncle—­you would nigh slay him on the spot.”

This mental suffering of his niece was not without its influence upon her uncle, who, as we have said before, had a certain kind and degree of pride—­pride of character we may almost call it—­not inconsistent with pursuits and a condition of life wild and wicked even as his.  His eye sternly settled upon that of his companion, as, without a word, he bore the almost lifeless girl into the chamber of his wife, who, aroused by the clamor, had now and then looked forth upon the scene, but was too much the creature of timidity to venture entirely amid the disputants.  Placing her under the charge of the old lady, Munro uttered a few consolatory words in Lucy’s ear, but she heard him not.  Her thoughts evidently wandered to other than selfish considerations at that moment, and, as he left the chamber, she raised her finger impressively:—­

“Do no murder, uncle! let him not persuade you into crime; break off from a league which compels you to brook a foul insult to those you are bound in duty to protect.”

“Would I could!” was his muttered sentence as he left the chamber.  He felt the justice of the counsel, but wore the bewildered expression of countenance of one conscious of what is right, but wanting courage for its adoption.

“She has told you no foolish story of me?” was the somewhat anxious speech of Rivers upon the reappearance of the landlord.

“She has said nothing in plain words, Guy Rivers—­but yet quite enough to make me doubt whether you, and not this boy we pursue, should not have my weapon in your throat.  But beware!  The honor of that child of Edgar Munro is to me what would have been my own; and let me find that you have gone a tittle beyond the permitted point, in speech or action, and we cut asunder.  I shall then make as little bones of putting a bullet through your ribs as into those of the wild bullock of the hills. I am what I am:  my hope is that she may always be the pure creature which she now is, if it were only that she might pray for me.”

“She has mistaken me, Munro—­”

“Say no more, Guy.  She has not much mistaken you, or I have.  Let us speak no more on this subject; you know my mind, and will be advised.—­Let us now be off.  The horses are in readiness, and waiting, and a good spur will bring us up with the game.  The youth, you say, has money about him, a gold watch, and—­”

The more savage ruffian grinned as he listened to these words.  They betrayed the meaner motives of action in the case of the companion, who could acknowledge the argument of cupidity, while insensible to that of revenge.

“Ay! enough to pay you for your share in the performance Do your part well, and you shall have all that he carries—­gold, watch, trinkets, horse, everything.  I shall be quite content to take—­his life!  Are you satisfied?  Are there any scruples now?”