But just then, the young British officer standing near Edith, resting on his sword, breathing, as it were, after a severe conflict, caught Cloudesley's eyes. Intoxicated with victory, Cloudesley sprang from his horse, and raising his ax, rushed up the stairs upon the youth!
Edith sprang and threw herself before the stripling, impulsively clasping her arms around him to shield him, and then throwing up one arm to ward off a blow, looked up and exclaimed:
"He is my preserver—my preserver, Cloudesley!"
And what did the young ensign do? Clasped Edith quietly but closely to his breast.
It was a beautiful, beautiful picture!
Nay, any one might understand how it was—that not years upon years of ordinary acquaintance could have so drawn, so knitted these young hearts together as those few hours of supreme danger.
"My preserver, Cloudesley! My preserver!"
Cloudesley grounded his ax.
"I don't understand that, Edith! He is a British officer."
"He is my deliverer! When Thorg set his men on me to hunt me, he cast himself before me, and kept them at bay until you came!"