This ceremony was all that was needed to place the Deering plantation well within his possession, and the thought filled him with great satisfaction. Some, in the mansion’s great rooms, had removed their masks, but most had not; and, among others the numerous body of maskers in the costumes of backwoodsmen, who had grouped in a solid mass near the door, still kept their faces covered.
The music was playing softly as Harwood raised his voice.
“Here, Cheyne,” said he, “come this way.”
Lieutenant Cheyne stepped forward, but to the surprise of all he was shouldered aside by a rough-looking youth in a black mask.
“What now, sir!” exclaimed Cheyne, angrily.
“Stand aside,” said Tom Deering, sharply. He pushed his way to the centre of the room, all falling back in surprise; Cornwallis and Tarleton, from the far end of the room, had recognized him as their mysterious visitor of the night before, and were staring eagerly to see what he was about to do.
“What do you mean by this offensive conduct, sir?” demanded Jasper Harwood, his face growing a deep purple and his wicked little eyes snapping with anger. “This is my house and——”
“Hold,” cried Tom in a voice that rang through the room like the blast of a bugle. “You speak falsely, Jasper Harwood. I am master here.”
“Master!” Harwood started and a shade of pallor crept into his face. “What do you want here?”
“To take this poor girl, and place her among friends,” he pointed to Laura as he spoke.