key, went out and locked her in. He had not
far to go. Manley had heard voices, and was
coming up, when he encountered the man whom,
of all men living, he dreaded to meet.

"Are you the fellow that has stolen my
daughter?" asked the colonel. Now, whatever
bravery Manley had, it did not nerve him to look
calmly on threatening muzzles, or to be cheerful
in anticipation of having his bones broken. He
had a theoretical or sentimental courage, very
well in its way, inasmuch as it has sustained
some very trembling knees on their way to the
stake; but it was not of the kind needful in a
"scrimmage," when, after natural means are
exhausted, the bowie-kntfe comes in to settle the
affair. So Manley, feeling an uncertainty in his
legs, and a prodigious thumping at his heart,
answered, in words that seemed to have the palsy:

"Yes, sir—that is, I married her—by her
consent. She was—was not stolen."

"Oh! Not stolen. Now, sir, I want to
know about the ceremony. Tell me what was
done—all about it."

Mr. Manley was not a man with a legal
education, or he would have known better
than to admit away his case. In fact, he had a
foolish sort of frankness that is highly commended
in story-books, but is very bad policy,
especially in dealing with an antagonist like
Colonel Barwell. So, he told what had
happened, not omitting the mending of the second-
hand license. A gleam of delight lighted up
the colonel's iron face when he heard that.

"Caught in your own trap, you fool!" he
exclaimed. "The marriage is not legal; not
worth so much as continental currency; void
from the beginning. My daughter is not your
wife. Go home, you fool! Perhaps you can
make a waggon-wheel. Think yourself lucky
that I leave you with a whole skin."

Manley was roused by the taunts, and said
something about appealing to the daughter.
The colonel unlocked the door, and, standing
on the threshold to keep the unmarried couple
apart, said:

"My daughter, you have been imposed upon,
deceived, betrayed. The marriage was a sham;
it gives you neither the rights nor the protection
of a wife. Now go home with me. I only
ask you to stay three weeks. If at the end of
that time you wish to marry this man, you
shall have an honourable wedding at my house.
But I don't believe that, possessing your senses,
you will ever marry such a mean-spirited fellow
as he has shown himself."

Here Cockburn interrupted from the stairway.
"If you are fool enough to agree to that,
Manley, then you are a mean-spirited fellow, and
you don't deserve to have her."

"Who is this pitching in with his cock-a-
doodle-doo?" inquired the colonel. "Come
here, you, if you want your comb cut." And
he took out a keen, glittering bowie-knife, and
felt the edge with his thumb. Manley could not
repress a shudder as he saw this unconcerned
handling of the fearful weapon. He spoke,
however, more calmly than before.

"Cockburn, I don't want any blood shed on
my account—your blood least of all. As I said
before, I did not steal the young lady, and to
prove that I have no wish to control her against
her will, I will leave it for her to decide. If she
loves me, she will not leave me for her father's
threats. If we are not lawfully married, it will be
easy to have the ceremony lawfully performed.
I shall not answer Colonel Barwell's flings at
my father's business. Some people, whom the
world considers great, have not been ashamed
of the labour of their hands. And there are
many rich men whom I would not exchange
places with, if I had to take their ignorance,
their animal habits, and brutal temper."

A few minutes earlier, this retort would have
cost the young man his life. As it was, Celia
turned pale, while she watched the play of
passion in her father's face. But he, feeling
pretty sure of triumph, was willing to let the
youth talk, and preferred on the whole not to
have the trouble and scandal of a fight.

"Come, daughter, you have heard the young
spark. He can talk, though he hasn't the
pluck to do anything else." (Still feeling the
edge of the knife, and showing his teeth to
Manley with an expressive smile.) "Will you
go home with me? I tell you in three weeks
you shall have your choice."

She wavered. She looked towards her lover
with tearful eyes. Perhaps one word from him
would have brought her to his side. But that
foolish uprightness of his, held him silent. He
had said what he had to say. If she came to
him, he thought, she must come of her own free
will. He would not lift a finger, to induce her.

"Decide," said the colonel. "If you leave
me, leave your name behind you; for I swear I
will never own you, nor shall you ever have a
crust from me to save you from starving!"

She moved a step towards her father. He
opened his arms.

"Can you forgive me, George?" she said.
"It is only for a little while. I swear I will
never marry any one but you. But to please
my father—and you know what he has promised
—will you not let me go? Then we'll have a
wedding, with our relations and friends. I can't
bear to go off with father's curse on my head.
Won't you forgive me, George? I will be true
to you."

What the father thought, he kept in his own
breast. He clasped his daughter in his arms
and throwing a cold glance over his shoulder
to Manley, said, with ironical courtesy, "You
can go, young man. And you may as well
order your horse to be fed for an early start."

"I am obliged to you," said Manley. "You
can keep your advice for another. As for you,
Celia, I must abide by your decision. Something
within tells me that we part for ever. But
the die is cast, by your hand. Farewell!"

Next day, Colonel Barwell and his daughter
started homeward. Manley and Cockburn sat
at the door, but no words were interchanged.
An hour or two later the young men followed,
reaching Barrington in the evening. The most