an a creature born for battle. And she appeared to be still undaunted,
full of her scheme, and could cry without fear of floods. Something of
the chivalrous restraint he put upon the motions of his heart, sprang
from the shadowy awe which overhung that impressible organ. This feeling
likewise led him to place a blind reliance on her sagacity and sense of
what was just, and what should be performed.

"You promised this money to him," he said, half thinking it incredible.

"On Monday," said Rhoda.

"You must get a promise from him in return."

She answered: "Why? when he could break it the instant he cared to, and a
promise would tempt him to it. He does not love her."

"No; he does not love her," said Robert, meditating whether he could
possibly convey an idea of the character of men to her innocent mind.

"He flung her off. Thank heaven for it! I should have been punished too
much--too much. He has saved her from the perils of temptation. He shall
be paid for it. To see her taken away by such a man! Ah!" She shuddered
as at sight of a hideous pit.

But Robert said: "I know him, Rhoda. That was his temper. It'll last just
four-and-twenty hours, and then we shall need all our strength and
cunning. My dear, it would be the death of Dahlia. You've seen the man as
he is. Take it for a warning. She belongs to him. That's the law, human
and divine."

"Not when he has flung her off, Robert?" Rhoda cried piteously.

"Let us take advantage of that. He did fling her off, spat at us all, and
showed the blackest hellish plot I ever in my life heard of. He's not the
worst sinner, scoundrel as he is. Poor girl! poor soul! a hard lot for
women in this world! Rhoda, I suppose I may breakfast with you in the
morning? I hear Major Waring's knock below. I want a man to talk to."

"Do come, Robert," Rhoda said, and gave him her hand. He strove to
comprehend why it was that her hand was merely a hand, and no more to him
just then; squeezed the cold fingers, and left her.

CHAPTER XI

So long as we do not know that we are performing any remarkable feat, we
may walk upon the narrowest of planks between precipices with perfect
security; but when we suffer our minds to eye the chasm underneath, we
begin to be in danger, and we are in very great fear of losing our equal
balance the moment we admit the insidious reflection that other men,
placed as we are, would probably topple headlong over. Anthony Hackbut,
of Boyne's Bank, ha