"Do so, and all will be well. Of course, no noise, even as loud as a whisper, must be heard in the lady's room." "I will be discreet; trust me for that. I am glad you have come to the rescue; I find there is nothing like a woman's wit." "Take care, then, that you are never _outwitted_ by them!" "Not much fear of that while I have such an ingenious ally!" "Take good care to keep her an ally; as an enemy, she might be equally ingenious." And so they parted. As she left the room, she mentally exclaimed: "'Come to the rescue!' Yes, I am truly glad I have!" The guests retired to their beds, and all was still as the solemn silence of midnight. The old clock in the corner tolled the hour of eleven, and half an hour afterward, a stealthy tread might have been heard along the partition dividing the two rooms already named. Soon a door slowly opened on its rusty hinges, and in the rayless darkness Durant entered the number containing his victim. He reached the couch, and paused to assure himself that all was as he desired. His ear was saluted with a heavy breathing, as of one in deep sleep. "All right!" he muttered within himself. "My hour has come. The vengeance of the '_dog_' shall be complete! Oh, but how I will glory in _my_ triumph, and the proud one's disgrace! I'll make her _feel_ what it is to insult a nobleman by blood! Gods, how the memory burns my brain of that indignity! An unknown girl to scorn and cast contumely upon one of England's line of lords! This night be the stain wiped out!" Lost! lost! _lost_! demon! from thy presence we turn away! Villain and victim, there is a God above! * * * * * The morning dawned, and the sun rose as cloudless as though no deeds of crime, needing the darkness to cover them, had been perpetrated on the earth. The Waltons left with the company they expected to join at Pittsburg on the succeeding day, not knowing that Durant had slept under the same roof with them. No, not so fast. One of their number _did_ know the fact--Ellen. Was it that knowledge that caused the paleness on her cheek, that aroused the anxious solicitude of her tender and watchful parents? "Are you sick, my daughter?" was the mother's affectionate inquiry. But she was cheered by the assurance that there was no serious cause of alarm; and that Ellen was only a little unwell. Without any mishap, they reached their new home in Kentucky. Two weeks had passed, and Eliza Fleming was still unmarried. During that time, she had seen Durant but twice, and he appeared desirous of avoiding a private interview. She was not slow to perceive this, and it filled her mind with misgivings of his truth, or the sincerity of his protestations. She demanded an interview; the demand was acceded to; and she said: "Why do you not make arrangements for our approaching marriage? It is surely time you were about it." "Oh, no hurry yet," he replied. "There is plenty of time."