CHAPTER XVI.
Cecil was waiting at the foot of the stairs, so eager, so happy, so grand looking in his wedding garments, that all her regrets vanished in passionate love and admiration. She clung to his arm, sighing to herself:
“Oh, Heaven grant that he may never, never find me out!”
Five minutes more and the ring was on her finger, the marriage vows had passed her lips, and Cecil Laurens’ lips had called her wife. She stood in the middle of the room, pale, but with a quiet dignity, receiving the congratulations of the guests.
Suddenly there was a stir and bustle at the door where the servants were congregated, looking on at the brilliant scene. A shabby young man, ghastly pale, with eyes of fire blazing out of his weak, good-looking face, pushed through the crowd of guests, crying out, fiercely:
“The bride—let me see the bride!”
A wild hubbub arose as he advanced, for in the hand that hung down at his side a score of eyes had caught the gleam of a knife. Insane fury flashed from his eyes as he advanced upon the beautiful bride.
Her eyes dilated with terror, her face waxed ghastly as she faced him, but not a sound came from her pallid, parted lips.
“Ha! ha!” the intruder cried with a horrible laugh as he stopped so close to her that his hot breath fanned her brow, while his eyes fairly devoured her terrified face.
Then—