But mingled with these, at length, there comes to her attentive ear a sound, or the suspicion of a sound, of distant horse hoofs falling upon the forest leaves—­it draws nearer—­it becomes distinct—­she knows it now—­it is—­it is a troop of British soldiers approaching the house!

They rode in a totally undisciplined and disorderly manner; reeling in their saddles, drunken with debauchery, red-hot, reeking from some scene of fire and blood!

And in no condition to be operated upon by Edith’s beautiful and holy influences.

They galloped into the yard—­they galloped up to the house—­their leader threw himself heavily from his horse and advanced to the door.

It was the terrible and remorseless Thorg!  No one could doubt the identity for a single instant.  The low, square-built, thick-set body, the huge head, the bull neck, heavy jowl, coarse, sensual lips, bloodshot eyes, and fiery visage surrounded with coarse red hair—­the whole brutalized, demonized aspect could belong to no monster in the universe but that cross between the fiend and the beast called Thorg!  And now he came, intoxicated, inflamed, burning with fierce passions from some fell scene of recent violence!

Pale as death, and nearly as calm, Edith awaited his coming.  She could not hope to influence this man or his associates.  She knew her fate now—­it was death!—­death by her own hand, before that man’s foot should profane her threshold!  She knew her fate, and knowing it, grew calm and strong.  There were no more hopes or fears or doubts or trepidations.  Over the weakness of the flesh the spirit ruled victorious, and Edith stood revealed to herself richly endowed with that heroism she had so worshiped in others—­in that supreme moment mistress of herself and of her fate.  To die by her own hand! but not rashly—­not till a trial should be made—­not till the last moment.  And how beautiful in this last fateful moment she looked!  The death pallor had passed from her countenance—­the summer breeze was lifting the light black curls—­soft shadows were playing upon the pearly brow—­a strange elevation irradiated her face, and it “shone as it had been the face of an angel.”

“By George! boys, what a pretty wench!  Keep back, you d——­d rascals!” (for the men had dismounted and were pressing behind him) “keep back, I say, you drunken ——!  Let rank have precedence in love as in other things!  Your turn may come afterward!  Ho! pretty mistress, has your larder the material to supply my men with a meal?”

Edith glanced around for her attendants.  Jenny lay upon the hall floor, fallen forward upon her face, in a deep swoon.  Oliver stood out upon the lawn, his teeth chattering, and his knees knocking together with terror, yet faintly meditating a desperate onslaught to the rescue with his wooden rake.

“No matter! for first of all we must have a taste of those dainty lips; stand back, bl—­t you,” he vociferated with a volley of appalling oaths, that sent the disorderly men, who were again crowding behind him, back into the rear; “we would be alone, d——­ you; do you hear?”