"Captain Mowbray," said she, "order that man to open the gate."

"I will not," said Mowbray, rudely.

"Then I shall ride by your side till you go out."

"You shall not."

"Is that the way that a gentleman speaks to a lady?"

"You won't get me into trouble, anyway."

"I don't intend to," said Edith, scornfully. "It is my own act. You will not take me out, but I go out of my own accord."

The porter meanwhile stood bewildered, with the gate only partly open, holding it in this way, and waiting for the end of this singular scene.

"Miss Dalton," cried Mowbray, fiercely, "you will make me resort to extreme measures."

"You dare not!" cried Edith, who by this time was fearfully excited. She had a horse beneath her now. That horse seemed part of herself. In that horse's strength and speed she lost her own weakness, and so she was now resolved to stake every thing on one effort for liberty.

"Don't force me to it," said Mowbray, "or you will make me do something that I shall be sorry for."

"You dare not!" cried Edith again. "Do you dare to threaten me--me, the mistress of Dalton Hall?"

"Catch hold of her reins, captain," cried the porter, "and make her go back."

"Hold your b.l.o.o.d.y tongue!" roared Mowbray.--"Miss Dalton, you must go back."

"Never!" said Edith. "I will go out when you do."

"Then I will not go out at all. I will go back to the Hall."

"You shall not enter it," said Edith, as firmly as though she possessed the keys of Dalton Hall.

"Miss Dalton, you force me to use violence."

[Ill.u.s.tration: IN HER FRENZY EDITH STRUCK THAT HAND AGAIN AND AGAIN.]

"You dare not use violence," said Edith, with a look that overawed the craven soul of Mowbray. For Edith now was resolved to do any thing, however desperate, and even the threat of violence, though she felt that he was capable of it, did not deter her. The two faced one another in silence for a few moments, the one strong, muscular, masculine, the other slight, fragile, delicate; yet in that girlish form there was an intrepid spirit which Mowbray recognized, defiant, haughty, tameless, the spirit of all her fathers, strengthened and intensified by a vehement desire for that liberty that lay outside the gates.

"Well," said the porter, "I'd better be a-shuttin' the gates till you two settle yer business. She'll dash through if I don't. I see it in her eye."

"No, she won't," said Mowbray. "Don't shut the gates; wait a moment."

Then turning to Edith, he said,

"Miss Dalton, for the last time, I say go back, or you'll be sorry."

Edith looked steadfastly and sternly at the captain, but said not one word. The captain looked away.

"Porter," said he.

"Sir."

"Hold her horse."

"But she'll rush through the gates. Shall I fasten them?"

"No; I'll hold the reins till you get them. And, porter, I leave this horse with Miss Dalton, since she won't dismount. You see that he's well taken care of."

"Yes, Sir."

The captain, while speaking, had reached out his arm to take Edith's reins, but she turned her horse's head, and he missed them. The porter saw this movement, and sprang forward. Edith pulled the reins. Her horse reared. Wild with excitement, and seeing the gates open before her, and the road beyond, Edith struck at the porter with her whip over his face, and then drove her horse at the open gates. The horse sprang through like the wind. The porter shrieked after her. She was on the road. She was free!

No--not free!

Not free, for after her there came the thundering tramp of another horse. It was Mowbray in pursuit.

His horse was far better than hers. He gained on her step by step.

Nearer and nearer he came. He was behind her; he was abreast of her before she had ridden a quartet of a mile. The tower of the village church was already in sight, when suddenly a strong hand was laid on her reins.

In her frenzy Edith struck that hand again and again with the heavy b.u.t.t of her riding-whip, but it did not loosen its grasp. Her horse stopped.

"Curse you!" roared Mowbray to Edith, while his face was livid with pa.s.sion and pain, "I'll kill you!" and seizing her whip hand, he wrenched the whip out of it.

Edith was silent.

Mowbray said no more. He turned her horse and led it back. Edith looked around wildly. Suddenly, as they came near the gates, the intolerable thought of her renewed imprisonment maddened her, and the liberty which she had so nearly gained roused her to one more effort; and so, with a start, she disengaged herself and leaped to the ground.

Mowbray saw it, and, with a terrible oath, in an instant leaped down and gave chase. The horses ran forward and entered the gates.

Edith held up her long skirts and ran toward the village. But again Mowbray was too much for her. He overtook her, and seizing her by the wrist, dragged her back.

Edith shrieked for help at the top of her voice. Mowbray looked fiercely around, and seeing no one, he took his handkerchief and bound it tightly around her month. Then, overcome by despair, Edith's strength gave way. She sank down. She made no more resistance. She fainted.

Mowbray raised her in his arms, and carried her into the porter's lodge.

The gates were then locked.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

Edith came to herself in the porter's lodge. Her re-awakened eyes, in looking up confusedly, saw the hateful face of Mowbray bending over her.

At once she realized the horror of her position, and all the incidents of her late adventure came vividly before her mind. Starting up as quickly as her feeble limbs would allow, she indignantly motioned him away.

Mowbray, without a word, stepped back and looked down.