onger the strength to scoff at these
things. And, if that was a warning of the death that was lying in wait
for her darling, then the other dream of the grave out there on the
lawn, in view of their own windows, might not that come true?

As the thought occurs to her, she draws back the curtains and looks
out. It is too dark to see anything, and she is turning away, when the
glimmer of a light in the direction of the old ruins makes her start
and pause.

"What can it be?" she asks herself.

It is glowing more brightly now, a fixed point that grows more luminous
every instant, till suddenly--as she stands watching it--it goes out.

The gale is at its height now, making doors and windows rattle, tearing
at the branches of the stout old trees, rioting and shrieking over the
empty fields; but it is not the wind that Honor hears as she stands
there breathless, one hand to her heart, the other holding by the
bed-rail to steady her from falling. It is the sound of an opening
door, of softly-tramping feet, of harsh voices speaking in a muffled
key, that makes them ten times more terrible and threatening.

At the same instant Horace--his room is next to hers--rushes past the
door and down the stairs in headlong haste.

Then rise the shrill screams of women, and over all her father's voice,
resolute and undaunted.

"Not from this house, my men." The words come up clearly to her as she
stands at the top of the stairs, faint and dizzy with fright. "Not
while a drop of blood runs in our veins. You may kill me--it is an easy
thing to shoot an old man----" But here his words are drowned in a
burst of yells and howlings terrible to listen to.

The next moment Honor is down in the hall, and has pushed her way past
her brother and the terrified servants to where her father stands, his
back to the dining-room, his face turned toward the little group of men
who, with black masks over their faces, have forced their way into the
hall.

It is a terrible scene--the girl will never forget it. These uncouth
menacing figures, the frightened faces of the women gathered about the
staircase, her young brother, as pale as any woman there, but cool and
calm. But the one figure distinct from all the rest is that of her
father, drawn to his full height, his resolute face turned full upon
his cowardly assailants. He looks quite ten years younger than he did
when she left him a few hours before, and there is a stern look on his
face that fright