scorn of the gentle and the soft—­this fondness for the fierce contradiction—­this indifference to the thing easily won—­this thirst after the forbidden.  Poor Ellen—­so gentle, so resigned, and so fond of her destroyer; but I will not see her again.  I must not; she must not stand in the way of my anxiety to conquer that pride which had ventured to hate or to despise me.  I shall see Munro, and he shall lose no time in this matter.  Yet, what can he be after—­he should have been here before this; it now wants but little to the morning, and—­ah!  I have not slept.  Shall I ever sleep again!”

Thus, striding to and fro in his apartment, the outlaw soliloquized at intervals.  Throwing himself at length upon a rude couch that stood in the corner, he had disposed himself as it were for slumber, when the noise, as of a falling rock, attracted his attention, and without pausing, he cautiously took his way to the entrance, with a view to ascertain the cause.  He was not easily surprised, and the knowledge of surrounding danger made him doubly observant, and more than ever watchful.

Let us now return to the party which had pursued the fugitives, and which, after the death of the landlord, had, as we have already narrated, adopting the design suggested by his dying words, immediately set forth in search of the notorious outlaw, eager for the reward put upon his head.  Having already some general idea of the whereabouts of the fugitive, and the directions given by Munro having been of the most specific character, they found little difficulty, after a moderate ride of some four or five miles, in striking upon the path directly leading to the Wolf’s Neck.

At this time, fortunately for their object, they were encountered suddenly by—­our old acquaintance, Chub Williams, whom, but little before, we have seen separating from the individual in whose pursuit they were now engaged.  The deformed quietly rode along with the party, but without seeming to recognise their existence—­singing all the while a strange woodland melody of the time and region—­probably the production of some village wit:—­

   “Her frock it was a yaller,
      And she was mighty sprigh
    And she bounced at many a feller
      Who came a-fighting shy.

   “Her eye was like a sarpent’s eye. 
      Her cheek was like a flower,
    But her tongue was like a pedler’s clock,
      ’Twas a-striking every hour.

   “And wasn’t she the gal for me,
      And wasn’t she, I pray, sir,
    And I’ll be drot, if you say not,
      We’ll fight this very day, sir. 
      We’ll fight this very day, sir.”

Having delivered himself of this choice morsel of song, the half-witted fellow conceitedly challenged the attention of the group whom he had not hitherto been disposed to see.

“’Spose you reckon I don’t see you, riding ’longside of me, and saying nothing, but listening to my song.  I’m singing for my own self, and you oughtn’t to listen—­I didn’t ax you, and I’d like to know what you’re doing so nigh Chub’s house.”