a
swift singing near his right ear, and knew that he was untouched.

Lest Colden's sword, thrust at random, might find him in the dark,
Harry instantly bestrode the stair-rail, and dropped, outside the
balustrade, to the floor of the hall. He grasped his half-sword in
both hands, so as to put his whole weight behind it, and made a lunge
in the direction of a muttered curse. The curse gave way to a roar of
pain and rage, and Colden's second follower dropped, spurting blood in
the darkness, his shoulder gashed horribly by the blunt end of
Peyton's imperfect weapon. Harry now ran back to the parlor, to deal
with Colden in the light, the latter's greater length of weapon giving
a greater searching-power in the darkness. In the parlor Elizabeth
stood waiting in suspense. Sam was sitting on the floor and staring
stupidly at Williams, who was now awake and rubbing his head, and the
Tory first fallen was still senseless. Harry had no sooner taken this
scene in at a glance, than Colden was upon him.

The major's eyes seemed to stand out like blazing carbuncles from the
face of some deity of rage.

"G--d d----n your soul!" he screamed, and thrust. The point went
straight, and Elizabeth, seeing it protrude through the back of
Harry's coat, near the left side of his body, uttered a low cry, and
sank half-fainting to her knees. Colden shouted with triumphant
laughter. "Die, you dog! And when you burn in hell, remember I sent
you there!"

But the evil joy suddenly faded out of Colden's face, for Harry
Peyton, smiling, took a forward step, grasped near the hilt the sword
that seemed to be sheathed in his own body, forced it from Colden's
hand, and then drew it slowly from its lodgment. No blood discolored
it, and none oozed from Harry's body.

The Virginian's quick movement to escape the thrust had left only a
part of his loose-fitting coat exposed, and Colden's sword had passed
through it, leaving him unhurt. Colden's momentary appearance of
victory had been the means of actual defeat.

The Tory major saw his cup of revenge dashed from his lips, saw
himself deprived of sword and sweetheart, neither chance left of
living nor motive left for life. His rage collapsed; his hate burst
like a bubble.

"Kill me," he said, quietly, to Peyton.

His look, innocent of any thought to draw compassion, quite disarmed
Harry, who stood for a moment with moistening eyes and a kind of
welling-up at the throat, then said, in a rather unstead