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 ax.
"I don't understand that, Edith! He is a British officer."
"He is my deliverer! When Thorg set his men on me to hunt me, he cast
himself before me, and kept them at bay until you came!"
"Mutinied!" exclaimed Cloudesley, in astonishment, and a sort of horror.
"Yes, I suppose it was mutiny," said the young ensign, speaking for the
first time and blushing as he withdrew his arm from Edith's waist.
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