Ellen could now delay no longer,
and their separation resembled that of persons who never expected to
meet again. If Lamh Laudher could at this moment have affected even a
show of cheerfulness, in spite of Ellen's depression it would have given
her great relief. Still, on her part, their parting was a scene of
agony and distress which no description could reach, and on his, it
was sorrowful and tender; for neither felt certain that they would ever
behold each other in life again.

A dark sunless morning opened the eventful day of this fearful battle.
Gloom and melancholy breathed a sad spirit over the town and adjacent
country. A sullen breeze was abroad, and black clouds drifted
slowly along the heavy sky. The Dead Boxer again had recourse to his
pageantries of death. The funeral bell tolled heavily during the whole
morning, and the black flag flapped more dismally in the sluggish blast
than before. At an early hour the town began to fill with myriads of
people. Carriages and cars, horsemen and pedestrians, all thronged in
one promiscuous stream towards the scene of interest. A dense multitude
stood before the inn, looking with horror on the death flag, and
watching for a glimpse of the fatal champion. From this place hundreds
of them passed to the house of Lamh Laudher More, and on hearing that
the son resided in his aunt's they hurried towards her cabin to gratify
themselves with a sight of the man who dared to wage battle with the
Dead Boxer. From this cabin, as on the day before, they went to the
church-yard, where a platform had already been erected beside the grave.
Against the railings of the platform stood the black coffin intended for
Lamh Laudher, decorated with black ribbons that fluttered gloomily in
the blast. The sight of this and of the grave completed the wonder and
dread which they felt. As every fresh mass of the crowd arrived, low
murmurs escaped them, they raised their heads and eyes exclaiming--

"Poor Lamh Laudher! God be merciful to him!"

As the morning advanced, O'Rorke's faction, as a proof that they were
determined to consider the death of their leader as a murder, dressed
themselves in red ribbons, a custom occasionally observed in Ireland
even now, at the funerals of those who have been murdered. Their
appearance passing to and fro among the crowd made the scene with all
its associations absolutely terrible. About eleven o'clock they went
in a body to widow Rorke's, for the purpose of on