Tom smiled at the eagerness in his cousin’s voice, and at his very evident disinclination to try to put the words into execution upon his own account. The careful teaching of Victor St. Mar had not been forgotten; on the contrary, Tom had not ceased to practice with small sword and sabre each day of his life; until, at last, there was not a man in Marion’s brigade that could stand before him sword in hand. This gave him a feeling of confidence when Clarage drew back his heavy blade to cut him down, as Mark Harwood had cried out for him to do. The Tory had great strength, it was true, but the lad’s practiced eye told him that there was absolutely no skill behind it. “Now, my jackanapes,” bellowed Clarage, “I’ll nail you against the door!” The heavy blade cut downward with a swish. But it was met and deftly turned aside; and the wielder of it received a sharp, contemptuous rap upon the side of the head from the flat of the boy’s sabre, in return. “Rats!” rang out Tom’s voice. “Rats, all of you! Insulters of girls and bullies of old men! You dare not face one who rides with Marion. I defy you all!” For, at this exhibition of his dexterity with the blade which he held in his hand, the Tories had ceased to display any undue eagerness to come forward. Clarage, indeed, made well nigh mad with rage, strove to get in a cut; but the flashing sabre of the swamp-rider drove him back with ease. “Pistols,” cried one. “At him with the pistols.” “They are in the holsters in the stable,” returned another. This was a fact that had been noted by Tom; the total absence of firearms among the Tories was the reason for his, seemingly, uncalled-for boldness. “Are we to let one boy hold us at bay,” shouted Clarage, flecks of white foam appearing upon his lip, so great was his rage. “At him, all together! Cut him down!” A circle of drawn swords flashed in Tom’s eyes; but before they could strike, he had vanished through the door and clapped it in their faces. “After him,” bawled Clarage, in a hoarse, thick voice, as he tore the door open and dashed into the hall. “Don’t let him escape.” “Don’t trouble yourself, my dear sirs,” came a steady, resolute voice from above. In amaze they glared upward. About midway on the staircase stood the bold youth who had so braved their wrath, his sabre point resting upon the step upon which he stood. “I have not the slightest intention of escaping; your company is too entertaining for me to desire to leave you.” “We have him safely,” said Mark Harwood in tones of triumph. “Escape is impossible now; get the muskets, Fannin,” to one of the others, “we’ll soon bring him to his knees.” The man shot quickly down the hall and out at the front door. Tom’s laugh rang in the ears of the seven who remained, for he was thinking of the disappointment that was in store for them. “He must be mad,” growled Clarage at this. “No sane person would laugh at the prospect of certain death.”