lover--nay, in her own
thoughts, she had carried off the admirer, perhaps the future lover,
from the heiress.

She was the wronger, not the wronged! Then wherefore vengeance?

Even, _therefore_, reader, because she had wronged her, and knew it;
because her own conscience smote her, and she would fain avenge on the
innocent cause, the pangs which at times rent her own bosom.

Envious and bitter, she could not endure that Blanche should be loved,
as she felt she was not loved herself, purely, devotedly, forever, and
for herself alone.

Ambitious, and insatiate of admiration, she could not endure that
George Delawarr, once her captive, whom she still thought her slave,
should shake off his allegiance to herself, much less that he should
dare to love her sister.

Even while she listened, she suddenly heard Blanche reply to some
words of her lover, which had escaped her watchful ears.

"Never fear, dearest George; I am sure that he has seen and knows
all--he is the kindest and the best of fathers. I will tell him all
to-morrow, and will have good news for you when you come to see me in
the evening."

"Never!" exclaimed the fury, stamping upon the ground violently--"by
all my hopes of heaven, never!"

And with the words she darted away in the direction of the hall as
fast as her feet could carry her over the level greensward; rage
seeming literally to lend her wings, so rapidly did her fiery passions
spur her on the road to impotent revenge.

Ten minutes afterward, with his face inflamed with fury, his periwig
awry, his dress disordered by the haste with which he had come up,
Allan Fitz-Henry broke upon the unsuspecting lovers.

Snatching his daughter rudely from the young man's half embrace, he
broke out into a torrent of terrible and furious invective, far more
disgraceful to him who used it, than to those on whom it was vented.

There was no check to his violence, no moderation on his tongue.
Traitor, and knave, and low-born beggar, were the mildest epithets
which he applied to the high-bred and gallant soldier; while on his
sweet and shrinking child he heaped terms the most opprobrious, the
most unworthy of himself, whether as a father or as a man.

The blood rushed crimson to the brow of George Delawarr, and his hand
fell, as if by instinct, upon the hilt of his rapier; but the next
moment he withdrew it, and was cool by a mighty effort.

"From you, sir, any thing! You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"