And if now her heart ached it was more with grief
for Fanny's fate than dread of her own. There comes, borne upon the
breeze that lifts her dark tresses, and fans her pearly cheeks, the
music of many rural voices--of rippling streams and rustling leaves and
twittering birds and humming bees.
But mingled with these, at length, there comes to her attentive ear a
sound, or the suspicion of a sound, of distant horse hoofs falling upon
the forest leaves--it draws nearer--it becomes distinct--she knows it
now--it is--it is a troop of British soldiers approaching the house!
They rode in a totally undisciplined and disorderly manner; reeling in
their saddles, drunken with debauchery, red-hot, reeking from some scene
of fire and blood!
And in no condition to be operated upon by Edith's beautiful and holy
influences.
They galloped into the yard--they galloped up to the house--their leader
threw himself heavily from his horse and advanced to the door.
It was the terrible and remorseless Thorg! No one could doubt the
identity for a single instant. The low, square-built, thick-set body,
the huge head, the bull neck, heavy jowl, coarse, sensual lips,
bloodshot eyes, and fiery visage surrounded with coarse red hair--the
whole brutalized, demonized aspect could belong to no monster in the
universe but that cross between the fiend and the beast called Thorg!
And now he came, intoxicated, inflamed, burning with fierce passions
from some fell scene of recent violence!
Pale as death, and nearly as calm, Edith awaited his coming.
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