"Don't!" she cried in greater terror than ever, "I will open!" He heard a brief whispered consultation, the key was turned in the lock, and the door was suddenly flung open. Sempland darted toward it on the instant and recoiled from the terrible figure of the little woman barring him with outstretched arms. If he had suffered within, she had suffered without the room. Such a look of mortal agony and anguish he had never seen on any human face. She trembled violently before him. Yet she was resolute not to give way, determined to keep the door. Clustered at her back were the three trembling negroes armed one with a knife, another with a pistol, another with a stout club. He would have swept them out of his path in an instant had it not been for the girl. She stood before him with outstretched arms, her attitude a mixture of defiance and appeal. [Illustration: "The door was suddenly flung open."] "It is too late," she said, "you were to go at seven. It is past that now. Saved, saved!" He could do her no violence, that was certain. He stood silent before her, his head bent toward the floor, thinking deeply. Her heart went out to him then, her soul yearned to him. She had hurt him, he must hate her--and she loved him. "Will you not come in and speak to me for a moment?" he asked her quietly enough at last. She signed to the men, stepped forward, the door was closed, and locked behind her, and they were alone. "Did you think to be of service to me?" he burst out, as she drew near and then paused irresolute, miserable. "You have ruined me for life! I begged that detail. I volunteered. I must get out! They may wait for me. It may not be too late. For God's sake unlock that door!" She shook her head, she could not trust herself to speak. "I don't understand you. If it is--love--for me--" She stared at him beseechingly, mute appeal for mercy, for help, in her lovely eyes. "You are condemning me to death, to worse than death. I am going!" "You cannot!" She came nearer as she spoke. Suddenly he seized her, drew her close to him, held her with his left arm, and there was happiness for her in his touch. She was as a child before his strength. With his right hand he presented his pistol to her temple. He took advantage of her weakness, but only in the service of a higher cause than love of woman, in answer to a greater demand than even she could make. She offered no resistance either. What was the use? "Boys!" he called out sharply. "Are you there?" "Yas, suh," answered Cato. "I have your mistress in my arms, my pistol is at her head. If you do not instantly open the door, I shall kill her where I stand!" "Cato, I forbid you to open!" cried Fanny Glen, in a ringing voice, still making no effort to struggle and looking up into the infuriated man's face with the expression of a martyr and an angel. He saw and recognized, but persisted; it was his only way. "Open instantly!" he said again, "unless you would see your mistress die!"