Lamh Landher hesitated, but was ultimately proceeding to make the
attempt, when a voice from the crowd, in tones that were evidently
disguised, shouted--

"Don't be a fool, young man; husband your strength, for you will want
it."

The Dead Boxer started again--"Ha!" he exclaimed, after listening
acutely, "fury of hell! are you there? ha! I'll grasp you yet, though."

The young man, however, felt the propriety of this friendly caution.
"The person who spoke is right," said he, "whoever he is. I will
husband, my strength," and he passed again into the cabin.

The boxer's countenance exhibited dark and flitting shadows of rage.
That which in an European cheek would have been the redness of deep
resentment, appeared, on his, as the scarlet blood struggled with the
gloomy hue of his complexion, rather like a tincture that seemed to
borrow its character more from the darkness of his soul, than from the
color of his skin. His brow, black and lowering as a thunder-cloud, hung
fearfully over his eyes, which he turned upon Lamh Laudher when entering
the hut, as if he could have struck him dead with a look. Having desired
the drums to beat, and the dead march to be resumed, he proceeded along
the streets until he arrived at the inn, from the front of which the
dismal flag of death flapped slowly and heavily in the breeze. At this
moment the death-bell of the town church tolled, and the sexton of the
parish bustled through the crowd to inform him that the grave which he
had ordered to be made was ready.

The solemnity of these preparations, joined to the almost superhuman