"I swear to you!" cried Burton, though his voice slightly trembled with an alarm Miles ever inspired him with. "Unless you loosen your hold, and let me pass, I will do as I said—one prick of my rowel in his flank, and this good servant of mine will pass over you; but I do not wish to harm you."
"No; or else you would bid your familiar there at your side, attack me!"
Burton in his terror had forgotten Viper, who stood at his side, shewing his range of huge tusks, ready at a word to spring upon Miles, whom he knew for an enemy. Burton raised his hand in signal.
"Stop him!" cried Miles, still grasping the horse firmly. "I would not kill the brave brute, but I tell you I am prepared to do so—for hear me you shall. I mean no violence, I have never interfered with you, save when your coward acts obliged me; leave me in peace, and I will not war with you, except on our day of retribution, for it will come—but I have something to say to you to-day——"
Before he could complete the sentence, at a quiet signal from his master, Viper flew at his throat; at the same moment, Marmaduke gave the rowel into the horse's flank, which sprang forward. This spring threw Viper back, or else the day had been Burton's in flight, for the dog aimed at the other's throat. Miles was firm, and on his guard against treachery. The dog reeled with a blow from the horse's shoulder; Miles drew the rein with a jerk, which almost brought the animal on his haunches, and Marmaduke from his saddle. Quick as thought Miles drew a small pocket-pistol from his bosom, and just as Viper was making a second rush towards him, he shot him dead. Burton groaned with terror. The horse made a mad effort to escape; then, finding the strong grasp on his rein, stood still, trembling with fear.
"Poor brute!" said Miles, putting back his pistol and looking at the dead dog; "but 'tis better so, he might have been made to do some bad deed some day, in bad hands. I thought he would be made your protector again, so I came prepared. Now we are two—man to man—hear me."
Burton could scarcely keep his seat from a coward fear, thus quite alone with the man he had so much injured.
"To-day," continued Miles, "you were in the old ruin by the river's side—you and her uncle: I saw you, but she did not—for this, I abridged her stay. I did not know your companion, till I watched you creep forth, like a base hound as you are, ever working in secret and darkness; and now, hear me—I love that girl—love her, as I love and hate, with all my soul, if all the powers of earth stood between us, she shall be mine, or none other's. She does not yet know all my feeling towards herself. I would not expend all the force of that affection in one interview. I garner it up, like my hatred for you; and now I tell you, that unsleeping as my hatred is, so is my love undying, and I will accomplish both! What I have to say to you is, do not come between her and me; you will not prevent, but you may cause her pain; and every hair of her fair head is counted in my heart to hang loving thoughts upon, and woe betide if the weight of one of these be lost to her in peace, through you. Now I have said all I wished to say, you may go; but stay," he added, again grasping the loosening rein, "remember, not by counsellings of others, darken one moment of her life, neither watch, report, nor seek her; yours she never will be, and I am here to avenge any grief to her; I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think—now, go; and if you advise, let it be wisely done!" He dropped the rein, and Marmaduke, who had vainly looked about, stealthily, hoping for some friendly face, some one to witness against Miles for violence, but all was silent, putting spurs to his horse, reached Gatestone. No wonder, then, he looked pale with his cousin's words ringing in his ears; especially those, "I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think." He was in a mood to utter every syllable in fear and trembling before the person he had started from home with the intention of confounding—namely, poor little Minnie. As he seated himself, he caught Juvenal's eye, and made a sign which he intended for one imploring silence. He was afraid of his shadow just then; but Juvenal was not one of very vivid intellect—he saw the sign—he had been awaiting the other's coming to speak. Thinking this the right moment, he commenced. Marmaduke coughed—all went as encouragement into Juvenal's ear; so, fixing his eyes on the thoughtful Minnie, he began in his peculiarly nasal twang to give utterance to a speech he had been conning over an hour before.
"We are all friends here, Marmaduke Burton. I look upon you already as almost one of the family; therefore I choose you to be witness of my just resentment, and firm resolution to have things amended. I see you approve me," he added, catching Burton's grimace, and mistaking its meaning. "You have blamed me, my friend, for supineness; you shall see how resolute I can be!"
All looked up in amazement; Sylvia fixed her eyes on Dora, who began, even she, to feel uncomfortable. Such prefaces are like bats flying round a room in some old house; every one fears them, not knowing on whom they may alight. Minnie was most unconcerned of all, until her uncle, pitching his voice in its most tenor and unpleasant key, exclaimed—"Minnie Dalzell, I am addressing myself to you. This day I, and my worthy friend Burton, were in the old ruin, when you, forgetting all maiden modesty, left your horse and old Thomas, the coachman, to sit upon a heap of ruins with——"