The Missing Bride | Page 7

Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth
fingers had shriveled and
dropped off afore they ever did it!" exclaimed Oliver, in a passion of
remorse, as he ran forward, rake in hand.

He was quickly thrown down and disarmed--no one had any hesitation
in dealing with him.
"Now then, my fair!" said Thorg, moving toward his victim.
Edith was now wild with desperation--her eyes flew wildly around in
search of help, where help there seemed none. Then she turned with the
frenzied impulse of flying.
But the men surrounded to cut off her retreat.
"Nay, nay, let her run! Let her run! Give her a fair start, and do you
give chase! It will be the rarest sport! Fox-hunting is a good thing, but
girl-chasing must be the very h--l of sport, when I tell you--mind, I tell
you, men--she shall be the exclusive prize of him who catches her!"
swore the remorseless Thorg.
Edith had gained the back door.
They started in pursuit.
"Now, by the living Lord that made me, the first man that lays hands on
her shall die!" suddenly exclaimed the young ensign, wresting his
sword from the hand of the corporal, springing between Edith and her
pursuers, flashing out the blade, and brandishing it in the faces of the
foremost.
He was but a stripling, scarcely older than Edith's self--the arm that
wielded that slender blade scarcely stronger than Edith's own--but the
fire that flashed from the eagle eye showed a spirit to rescue or die in
her defense.
Thorg threw himself into the most frantic fury--a volley of the most
horrible oaths was discharged from his lips.
"Upon that villain, men! Beat him down! Slay him! Pin him to the
ground with your bayonets! And then! do your will with the girl!"
But before this fiendish order could be executed, ay, before it was half

spoken, whirled into the yard a body or about thirty horsemen,
galloping fiercely to the rescue with drawn swords and shouting voices.
They were nearly three times the number of the foraging soldiers.
CHAPTER III.
YOUNG AMERICA IN 1814.
Young students of the neighboring academy--mere boys of from
thirteen to eighteen years of age, but brave, spirited, vigorous lads, well
mounted, well armed, and led on by the redoubtable college hero,
Cloudesley Mornington. They rushed forward, they surrounded, they
fell upon the marauders with an absolute shower of blows.
"Give it to them, men! This for Fanny! This for Edith! And this! and
this! and this for both of them!" shouted Cloudesley, as he vigorously
laid about him. "Strike for Hay Hill and vengeance! Let them have it,
my men! And you, little fellows! Small young gentlemen, with the
souls of heroes, and the bodies of elves, who can't strike a very hard
blow, aim where your blows will tell! Aim at their faces. This for
Fanny! This for Edith!" shouted Cloudesley, raining his strokes right
and left, but never at random.
He fought his way through to the miscreant Thorg.
Thorg was still on foot, armed with a sword, and laying about him
savagely among the crowd of foes that had surrounded him.
Cloudesley was still on horseback--he had caught up an ax that lay
carelessly upon the lawn, and now he rushed upon Thorg from behind.
He had no scruple in taking this advantage of the enemy--no scruple
with an unscrupulous monster--an outlawed wretch--a wild beast to be
destroyed, when and where and how it was possible!
And so Cloudesley came on behind, and elevating this formidable
weapon in both hands, raising himself in his stirrups and throwing his

whole weight with the stroke, he dealt a blow upon the head of Thorg
that brought him to the earth stunned. From the impetus Cloudesley
himself had received, he had nearly lost his saddle, but had recovered.
"They fly! They fly! By the bones of Caesar, the miscreants fly! After
them, my men! After them! Pursue! pursue!" shouted Cloudesley,
wheeling his horse around to follow.
But just then, the young British officer standing near Edith, resting on
his sword, breathing, as it were, after a severe conflict, caught
Cloudesley's eyes. Intoxicated with victory, Cloudesley sprang from his
horse, and raising his ax, rushed up the stairs upon the youth!
Edith sprang and threw herself before the stripling, impulsively
clasping her arms around him to shield him, and then throwing up one
arm to ward off a blow, looked up and exclaimed:
"He is my preserver--my preserver, Cloudesley!"
And what did the young ensign do? Clasped Edith quietly but closely to
his breast.
It was a beautiful, beautiful picture!
Nay, any one might understand how it was--that not years upon years
of ordinary acquaintance could have so drawn, so knitted these young
hearts together as those few hours of supreme danger.
"My preserver, Cloudesley! My preserver!"
Cloudesley grounded his
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