“Am I, her uncle, not her friend?” Jasper Harwood advanced upon Tom, but the masked young swamp-rider looked him fearlessly in the eye. “Who are you, sir?” the older man demanded, furiously, “who are you, I say?”
Tom turned and held up his hand with a proud gesture.
“Stand out, my gallant lads,” he cried, his eye flashing.
The masks were torn from the faces of the backwoodsmen, and they stood forth with musket, pistol and naked sabre, facing the startled guests of Jasper Harwood.
“These!” cried Tom, his glance sweeping the brilliant throng of officers who stood, their swords half drawn, looking at him astounded, “these are Marion’s men.”
“And you?” shouted Jasper Harwood.
Tom plucked the covering from his face.
“Look,” said he.
As Jasper Harwood looked into his gallant nephew’s face, there came a sudden crash of falling metal; the great candellabrum, which had been the sole means of lighting the room, had been dashed to the floor by Cole, and the place was left in complete darkness. Women screamed and men shouted; but when lights were once more secured, the swamp-riders, with Laura in their midst, were gone; and the hoof-beats of their horses rang out from far down the road.