The feud of a hundred years, with all its acts of aggression and retaliation, was concentrated in the bosom of each combatant.

Their countenances seemed fiercely writhen into the wildest expression of pride, hate, and a desperate purpose of fighting to the very last.
The spectators murmured a joyful applause, in high wrought expectation of the bloody game.

Wagers were offered and accepted both on the general issue of the conflict and on the feats of particular champions.

The clear, frank, and elated look of Henry Smith rendered him a general favourite among the spectators, and odds, to use the modern expression, were taken that he would kill three of his opponents before he himself fell.
Scarcely was the smith equipped for the combat, when the commands of the chiefs ordered the champions into their places; and at the same moment Henry heard the voice of Simon Glover issuing from the crowd, who were now silent with expectation, and calling on him: "Harry Smith--Harry Smith, what madness hath possessed thee ?" "Ay, he wishes to save his hopeful son in law that is, or is to be, from the smith's handling," was Henry's first thought; his second was to turn and speak with him; and his third, that he could on no pretext desert the band which he had joined, or even seem desirous to delay the fight, consistently with honour.
He turned himself, therefore, to the business of the hour.

Both parties were disposed by the respective chiefs in three lines, each containing ten men.