She was disturbed by some one entering the outer room. She recognized the footsteps as those of Sir Ralph. She got up from her knees, bathed her face and eyes, touched her hair to order with skilful fingers, and opened the door of her chamber. The baronet looked up at the sound.
"Ah, lass," he said, "we've driven the rascals off. They have crossed the river."
With that he fell again to his slow pacing of the room.
"I do not fear the savages," she cried. "Oh, I do think their knives and arrows would be welcome."
"Poor child! poor little lass!" he said, pausing beside her and kissing her tenderly. "You have been weeping," he added, concernedly. "But courage, dear. The fellow is harmless for five long months to come. His fangs are as good as filed, shut off here and surrounded by the snow and the savages."
Evidently the sight of his daughter's distress had dimmed the finer conception of his promise to D'Antons. He looked about him uneasily and sighed.
She laid her face against his coat and held tight to his sleeves.
"I hate him," she whispered. "Oh, my father, I hate him for my own sake as much as I fear him for yours. His every covert glance, his every open attention, stings me like a whip. And yet, out of fear, I must smile and simper, and play the hypocrite."
"No—by God!" exclaimed Westleigh, trembling with emotion. Then, more quietly, "Beatrix, I cannot wear this mask any longer. The fellow is hateful to me. I despise him. How such a creation of the devil's can love you so unswervingly is more than I can fathom. I would rather see you dead than married to him. There—I have broken my word again! Let me go."