“Why?” demanded Miss Sally, beginning to weaken at the knees.
“If Colden sends him to the ground, in our presence, that will crown the fellow’s humiliation.”
Five brisk knocks, in quick succession, were heard from the outside door of the east hall.
Peyton walked across the parlor, turned, and stood facing the east hall door, the greater part of the room’s length being between him and it. His hand remained on his sword. He paid no heed to Elizabeth, she paid none to him.
“His knock!” she said, and called out through 243 the east hall door: “’Tis Major Colden, Sam. Show him here at once.” She then stepped back from the door, to a place whence she could see both it and Peyton. Her aunt clung to her arm all the while, and now whispered, “Oh, Elizabeth, I fear there will be trouble!”
“If there is, it won’t fall on your silly head,” whispered Elizabeth, in reply.
From the hall came the sound of the drawing of bolts. Peyton did not take his eyes from the door.
A noise of footfalls, accompanied by clank of spurs and weapons, and in came Colden, his hat in his left hand, snow on his hat and shoulders, his cloak open, his sword and pistols visible, his right hand ungloved to clasp Elizabeth’s.
She received him with such a cordial smile as he had never before had from her.
“Elizabeth!” he cried,—beheld only her, hastened to her, took her proffered hand, bent his head and kissed the fingers, raised his eyes with a grateful, joyous smile,—and saw Peyton standing motionless at the other side of the room. The smile vanished; a look of amazement and hatred came.