“Give it to them, men!  This for Fanny!  This for Edith!  And this! and this! and this for both of them!” shouted Cloudesley, as he vigorously laid about him.  “Strike for Hay Hill and vengeance!  Let them have it, my men!  And you, little fellows!  Small young gentlemen, with the souls of heroes, and the bodies of elves, who can’t strike a very hard blow, aim where your blows will tell!  Aim at their faces.  This for Fanny!  This for Edith!” shouted Cloudesley, raining his strokes right and left, but never at random.

He fought his way through to the miscreant Thorg.

Thorg was still on foot, armed with a sword, and laying about him savagely among the crowd of foes that had surrounded him.

Cloudesley was still on horseback—­he had caught up an ax that lay carelessly upon the lawn, and now he rushed upon Thorg from behind.

He had no scruple in taking this advantage of the enemy—­no scruple with an unscrupulous monster—­an outlawed wretch—­a wild beast to be destroyed, when and where and how it was possible!

And so Cloudesley came on behind, and elevating this formidable weapon in both hands, raising himself in his stirrups and throwing his whole weight with the stroke, he dealt a blow upon the head of Thorg that brought him to the earth stunned.  From the impetus Cloudesley himself had received, he had nearly lost his saddle, but had recovered.

“They fly!  They fly!  By the bones of Caesar, the miscreants fly!  After them, my men!  After them!  Pursue! pursue!” shouted Cloudesley, wheeling his horse around to follow.

But just then, the young British officer standing near Edith, resting on his sword, breathing, as it were, after a severe conflict, caught Cloudesley’s eyes.  Intoxicated with victory, Cloudesley sprang from his horse, and raising his ax, rushed up the stairs upon the youth!

Edith sprang and threw herself before the stripling, impulsively clasping her arms around him to shield him, and then throwing up one arm to ward off a blow, looked up and exclaimed: 

“He is my preserver—­my preserver, Cloudesley!”

And what did the young ensign do?  Clasped Edith quietly but closely to his breast.

It was a beautiful, beautiful picture!

Nay, any one might understand how it was—­that not years upon years of ordinary acquaintance could have so drawn, so knitted these young hearts together as those few hours of supreme danger.

“My preserver, Cloudesley!  My preserver!”

Cloudesley grounded his ax.

“I don’t understand that, Edith!  He is a British officer.”

“He is my deliverer!  When Thorg set his men on me to hunt me, he cast himself before me, and kept them at bay until you came!”

“Mutinied!” exclaimed Cloudesley, in astonishment, and a sort of horror.

“Yes, I suppose it was mutiny,” said the young ensign, speaking for the first time and blushing as he withdrew his arm from Edith’s waist.