rcy had spared her the worst horrors of the scene; but as Captain
Percy's eyes rested on her, a deeper scowl settled on his brow, and in a
hoarse whisper he asked:--

"Have they harmed her, sir?"

"Not by a touch, thank God! not by a touch!" exclaimed the father, as he
pressed her with passionate joy to his heart--ay, joy, even in the
presence of her so long the light of his life now passing for ever from
earth. For a few minutes the dying had been forgotten, for what was
death--a death of peace--to the long misery into which man's base,
brutal passion would have converted the life of that pure and lovely
girl? Now, however, she was safe, and still supporting her on his arm,
Mr. Sinclair turned to his wife and tenderly moistened her parched lips.
What a mockery of all human cares seemed that pale, peaceful
brow--peaceful, while he whose lightest sorrow had thrown a shadow on
her life was suffering anguish inexpressible, and the child who had lain
in her bosom, to the lightest throb of whose heart her own had answered,
lay senseless from terror in his arms. It was a scene to touch the
hardest heart, and Captain Percy's heart was not hard. He looked around
for the men whom he had interrupted in their hellish designs--they were
not there.

"Is this their work?" he asked of Mr. Sinclair, pointing to his scarcely
breathing wife.

"No--no--this is the gentle hand of our Father," said Mr. Sinclair, as
he bent his head and touched with his lips the sunken cheek dearer to
him now than it had been in all its girlish roundness. The blood had
begun to cast a slight tinge of red into the lips of Mary Sinclair
before Captain Percy had left the room in search of the men whom he was
unwilling to leave behind him, and when he returned, the tremor of her
form and the close clasp with which she clung to her father, proved that
her consciousness and her memory were awake. His step had startled her,
and as he entered he heard Mr. Sinclair say, "Fear not, my daughter,
that is the step of your deliverer, and though he is an English
soldier----"

"I pray you, sir, judge not Englishmen by ruffians like these--a
disgrace to the name of man. Believe me, every country has within it
wretches, who, at moments such as this, when all social restraints are
withdrawn, become demons. But I must leave you, in safety, I trust, as I
have sent to the ships all the soldiers whom I could discover in your
neighborhood."

"Farewell, sir," said Mr. Sincla