"I will help!"
"He has betrayed me," thought L'Estrange. "I care not,—they must beard the lion in his den!"
He drew forth a pistol and cocked it; Ellen heard the sound, but she almost heeded it not,—she was buried in prayer. L'Estrange had time to escape ten times over; there was the secret door, known to none but himself and his colleagues, and from this he might have escaped, and hidden with old Stacy in the dungeons to which it led; but he was either petrified, or the hopes of avenging himself on the Earl and Ellen at once, in his lordship's death, induced him to remain.
Once more the tremendous crash thundered on the door, and this time the mighty gate gave way before the strength that stormed it, and over the ruins he saw the assaulters. Their howl of vengeance moved him not. He saw the Earl, the Marquis, and many others. Could he believe his eyes,—behind them stood the Captain!
"He has, then, betrayed me, and he dies for it!"
He was about to fire, when a masonic sign from the Captain stayed his hand, just in time, and he reserved the shot for the Earl!
CHAPTER XXV.
"Is the lion at bay?
Woe, woe to the hunter that stands in his way."
Bluebeard.
Whatever were L'Estrange's faults he was no coward, and now that the hour was come, he determined to meet it like a man. He disdained the very idea of flight, though his path to safety still was open; he had only to plunge behind the tapestry, descend the dark stairs, and in the labyrinth of passages and dungeons they might as well have thought to track the vermin that haunted the tower to their nests as to find him again. He stood in still, brave despair! The last high thought was in a well-fought encounter to end a life of disgrace by a desperate death, and at least let the parting scene be more worthy his name than his life had proved. It is true his face blanched slightly when he saw the numbers of his foes; it was not fear, but partly the feeling that by his present position, as a heartless tyrant preparing to do a weak and innocent woman wrong, he had justly merited all good men's hate; partly the sense that in a few moments he would either be slain or captive, that made his blood run back to his heart. Shame and infamy if he lived, eternal misery if he died; but it was not fear! His early days came back on his memory,—his strange life,—his love,—his rejection; his damnable, but now disconcerted plot,—Ellen's abhorrence,—his present critical position; all came back in one burning moment, and now the last act was to be played he would show them what a desperate man hemmed in by foes was. His first thought was to shoot the Earl, who leaped foremost over the ruins. He presented the pistol at his head, and nothing but the devotion of faithful Wilton saved the Earl's life. He pulled the trigger—the flash—the report! and not the Earl, but the brave Wilton fell, pierced by the winged ball through his chest! A yell of fury rent the air at this outrage. Again he cocked, again he presented; but by this time numbers had filled the room, Scroop dashed forward and threw up his arm. The ball entered the ceiling—another murder was stopped, but the stayer of his hand paid dearly! With a horrid oath of rage, L'Estrange struck Scroop a murderous blow on the temple with the empty pistol, and felled him to the ground as if he had been stricken by a thunderbolt. The blood welled forth from the wound, and the scene grew terrific. Undaunted still, glutted with gore, like a tiger at bay, stood the desperado. In the cold moonlight and the red glare of lanterns everything took a more horrid aspect. The white figure of Ellen in petrifaction of terror, the Satanic expression of the murderer, the vengeful glances of the assailants, made an awful picture; the worst part was the two forms, one lifeless, and one apparently so, stretched on the ground in a pool of their own blood. For an instant all was deathly still, save the deep-drawn breaths of vengeance. The room was filled with smoke, which gave a misty, awful air to the whole. For a moment assaulters and assaulted stood still. It was not fear that stayed them, but the dreadful vengeance that could not breathe out into actions in the one party, and the rapid thoughts of what must follow next in the other. It was a pause, but for a moment, like the hush in the hurricane, and then it was broken by L'Estrange, who suddenly hit on his plan. With a bound he escaped the Earl, who rushed to meet him, nimbly avoided the Captain and Sir Richard, who, without showing their double conduct, easily man[oe]uvred so as to let him pass, and doubtless he would have altogether escaped had it not been for the Marquis, who stood at the door, and when he saw him escaping interposed his giant form. Still the desperate man kept on, but it was vain! The fawn might as well have thought to escape the lion, as L'Estrange to free himself from the furious grip with which the young peer seized him! He struck wildly for his face, but the Marquis threw his whole weight and strength on his antagonist, and bent him to the ground. As falls the oak on the sapling, so fell the Marquis on L'Estrange, and in an instant weighed him down. Seizing the prostrate man by his throat, he placed his knee on his chest, and nigh pressed the breath out of his body. Still the vanquished made the most desperate struggles to rise and free himself from the iron grip; as well might the fabled Titans have striven to upheave the Ætnean mass that buried them beneath its rocks! He howled, he swore, his very face grew black with passion and futile efforts to rise! Vain was the struggle; the Marquis had too firm a hold, and as he still knelt on him said—