"It is my armoury, and should be locked; but the negligence of the servants gives you a resting place, it is so near the tower; this large leather chair you will find comfortable."
"Thank you, that will do; lift over that box with the dynamite; look about it for my feet."
"Beautiful feet! and my wife's," he whispered low.
"Ta, ta. I have plenty to occupy my eyes."
"Yes, I take quite a pride in my armour, from our own and foreign lands; with the sabre de mon pere, Indian idols, Highland targets, and many relics of my happiest days.".
"There, there, that will be very comfortable; by-by."
His footsteps have scarce died away when she is conscious of not being alone, and though in the dim light, her nerves are strong and do not give way; still she slowly arises humming an air, and as if to have a nearer view of an Indian curiosity. Scarcely has she done so than she is clasped in the strong arms of a man who has come from behind her, and pillows her face closely to his breast to prevent a scream, and so she shall not recognize him. She dreaded the return of Col. Haughton, now that events are shaping themselves fairly well; her immediate fear is lest any escapade should cause him to return with her to London, which would perforce prevent her immediate escort by the man she loves. So she allowed a tremor to pass through her, thinking to excite pity—which she did, for he slightly loosened his tight hold.
"Let me go and I shall not scream; you may have my money or jewels," she said in gasps.
"I only want you, my beauty," said a voice she knew well—the voice of
George Delrose. And her face is rudely kissed again and again.
"I hope you are satisfied; I shall not ask you how you came here, for as I have before had occasion to remark, you are Lucifer himself," she said in cutting accents.