In the meantime Mark Harwood was explaining, with evident delight, his father’s reasons for marrying Laura to the British dragoon. “Cheyne,” said he, “has some very high-class connections across the water; an uncle is the Duke of Shropshire, you know, and the Marquis of Dorking is a cousin. Both of these gentlemen are very friendly with the king and Lord North; so, you see, with the lieutenant in the family, there is no great danger of our losing the Deering estate.” Another shout of laughter greeted this; the crafty methods of Jasper Harwood seemed to please the Tories greatly. Suddenly there came a loud bellowing from Clarage, and the laughter ceased. “Where has Foster gone?” demanded the Tory. “What has become of him? He was here a moment ago.” “He’s up to some trick,” cried Mark Harwood excitedly. “There is a Whig spy about, somewhere; and Foster has gone to warn and help him to elude us.” There was an instant rush for the door; but Lucy Foster stood there barring their passage. “My father is unwell,” she said, quietly, but with a slight tremble in her voice. “He has gone to his chamber to rest.” “Ah, is it so, indeed,” sneered young Harwood. “Well, we will assure ourselves of that, Miss Lucy, if you please. Stand aside.” “I will not!” cried she, defiantly. “Don’t waste words with her,” growled Clarage. “There is no knowing what her rebel father is up to while we are parleying with her, here.” “I shall not move!” exclaimed Lucy, in ringing tones. “My father has gone to his chamber because he is unwell--I give you my word for that. Is it not enough?” “No,” said Harwood. “We’ll see for ourselves.” “You shall not disturb him. It is cruel--it is a sin--for he is weak and ill.” Without any further words the Tories sprang at her. But at that same instant the door, against which the brave girl had placed her back, opened behind her; a strong arm drew her quickly into the hall; then the door closed with a snap and the astounded king’s men found themselves facing, not a weak girl, but a tall, muscular youth with a keen bronzed face, steady, cool eyes, and a naked sabre in his hand. “Gentlemen,” said he, his fearless gaze traveling over them as he stood there, “I bid you good-day.” “Tom Deering,” cried Mark Harwood, astounded. “Quite so!” The young swamp-rider’s eyes were filled with scorn as he addressed himself to his Tory cousin. “You are surprised to see me, I take it.” “Who is this fool that places his head in the lion’s mouth?” roared Clarage, his deep voice sounding like the rumbling of distant thunder. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Tom’s level gaze met Clarage’s furious one, with quiet assurance. “There are no lions here; it is more like a nest of rats.” With a snarl the big Tory dragged his heavy, brass hilted sword from its scabbard. “Then feel of the rat’s teeth,” he growled drawing back his arm for a tremendous blow. “It’s the scout of the Swamp-Fox,” cried Mark Harwood. “Cut him down.”