result of her imprudence.  Her father now listened.  There was a dread suspense in his look more fearful than even the most violent outburst of his wrath.  He seemed every moment to expect some irrefragable proof,—­some visible and overwhelming conviction of his daughter’s infamy.  The door was still closed.  Groans were plainly audible, telling of some terrible strife within.  Suddenly these indications ceased.  Holt shuddered.  He fancied some foul act was perpetrating—­perhaps even now consummated—­under his own roof; and swift would be the vengeance required at his hands.  Constance, too, seemed to apprehend the commission of some deadly crime, as she threw herself imploringly before her father.

“Save them,—­oh, save them!—­their strife is mortal!”

He shook her from him with a glance of abhorrence, and the maiden fell heavily on the floor.  He was preparing to enter when the door flew open, and a form rushed through in the gaudy apparel of the officer.  He leaped on the floor, and, ere Holt could utter a word, he heard him descending the stairs with great precipitation.

“Whom hast thou concealed in thy bedchamber?” inquired the almost frantic father.  Constance sat on the ground, her head resting on the chair beside which she had fallen.  She wept not, but her heart was full even to bursting.

“What is the name of thy paramour?—­Thou hast been somewhat eager, methinks, to accomplish thine own and a father’s disgrace?”

This cutting address roused her.  She replied, but in a firm tone—­

“A stranger,—­an exile.  Misfortune appeals not to woman’s heart unalleviated.  He threw himself on my protection; and where the feelings own no taint, their purity is not sullied,—­even in a lady’s bedchamber!”

A glance of insulted pride passed over her beautifully-formed features.  It was but for a moment.  The agony of her spirit soon drank up the slender rill her feelings had gushed forth, and she stood withered and drooping before the angry frown of her father.

“Surely, ’tis not the rebel Tyrone that my daughter harbours in the privacy of her chamber?  Speak!—­Nay, then hast thou indeed brought an old man’s grey hairs to the grave in sorrow!  Treason!—­Oh, that I have lived for this,—­and my own flesh and blood hath done it.  Out of my sight, unnatural monster.  Dare not to crawl again across my path, lest I kill thee!”

“O my father!  I am indeed innocent.”  She again threw herself at his feet, but he spurned her from him as though he loathed her beyond endurance.  Boiling and maddened with rage at the presumption of this daring rebel, Holt, forgetful of his own danger, seized the light.  He burst open the secret door; but what was his astonishment on beholding, not the hated form of Tyrone, but the officer of justice himself, gagged, pinioned, and deprived of his outer dress.  The cap and mantle of Tyrone, by his side, told too plainly of the daring and dangerous exploit by which his escape had been effected.