Had Margaret possessed an atom less presence of mind, she would have answered involuntarily "No," in her scorn of the cowardly villain, but she bit her lip in time, and held her peace. Full well she knew that her first word would be the signal of her death. "There are two hours and a half before daylight," said the enemy. "Are you willing to have that pistol pointed at you for two hours and a half, waiting to shoot you with the first gleam of daylight, or will you give up the note-book and come to terms with me, for our mutual safety?" Margaret would not peril her safety by a whisper. "I don't object, even after all that has passed, to marry you, and let you be mistress of the property, if you will only say yes." "Heaven grant me patience to keep quiet," prayed Margaret, in her soul. "Are you there, girl, or am I talking to an empty room?" called the man, with a bitter oath. "Have you slipped, with your confounded cleverness, out by some side door?" Not a breath answered him; his own breathing almost filled the room as he applied his ear to the hole. A protracted silence ensued. The man at the window waited with murder in his black soul for the faintest sound within; the hound at the door sniffed with dripping fangs, and waited too, demon-like in his imitation of his master; the lonely woman crouched in the corner, defenseless, weak, affrighted, and prayed that Heaven would keep her safe. The hours crept slowly on, but oh! how leaden were their wings. The death-watch of these three was drawing to an end. Margaret kept her dizzy eyes still fastened upon the black line that began to be discernible at the window, and saw a crisis approaching. "Are you dead or living in there?" said Roland Mortlake, at the auger-hole, "If you are, you're a brave girl, and I want you for my wife. Say 'yes.'" No answer from within, save the whine of the sleuth-hound at the door. A distant bugle call from without, from some early huntsman. An angry hand shook the heavy shutters. Thank heaven! the bolts were the massive bars of the sixteenth century, made for feudal defense and not for beauty. "If I break in the window, it won't be good for you, Margaret Walsingham," was the boastful threat, as a second shaking was administered to the shutters. The clear, joyous notes of the bugle sounded nearer; the lusty holloa of the sportsman to his dogs came over the Waaste and into the hole to the ear of Margaret Walsingham, and a rush of joy swept over her and gave her hopes of life. This early huntsman was no doubt Squire Clanridge, who, she now remembered having heard from Purcell, the steward, was to take the Seven-Oak dogs out this morning to have a run with his own. He would pass this side of Castle Brand on his way to the kennels, and the cowardly assassin would have either to fly or be seen. An imprecation burst from him in a voice which betrayed his fury, his disappointment, his apprehension.