“I see it is not,” proceeded Tom in the same low voice. “Laura, my mother always thought as much of you as if you had been her own daughter. And I will do and dare for you what I would do and dare for my own sister.” “Tom, what do you mean?” He had no chance to answer, for at this moment Jasper Harwood came hastily up and, with a searching, suspicious look at Tom, drew Laura away. Lieutenant Cheyne had come in accompanied by a crowd of young officers; Tarleton and Lord Cornwallis glittered among the gathering in their splendid uniforms; not a thing was wanting, in Tory Harwood’s mind, to make the occasion one of the utmost pomp and display. The burly old Tory stood, with Laura, in the midst of his glittering guests. This ceremony was all that was needed to place the Deering plantation well within his possession, and the thought filled him with great satisfaction. Some, in the mansion’s great rooms, had removed their masks, but most had not; and, among others the numerous body of maskers in the costumes of backwoodsmen, who had grouped in a solid mass near the door, still kept their faces covered. The music was playing softly as Harwood raised his voice. “Here, Cheyne,” said he, “come this way.” Lieutenant Cheyne stepped forward, but to the surprise of all he was shouldered aside by a rough-looking youth in a black mask. “What now, sir!” exclaimed Cheyne, angrily. “Stand aside,” said Tom Deering, sharply. He pushed his way to the centre of the room, all falling back in surprise; Cornwallis and Tarleton, from the far end of the room, had recognized him as their mysterious visitor of the night before, and were staring eagerly to see what he was about to do. “What do you mean by this offensive conduct, sir?” demanded Jasper Harwood, his face growing a deep purple and his wicked little eyes snapping with anger. “This is my house and----” “Hold,” cried Tom in a voice that rang through the room like the blast of a bugle. “You speak falsely, Jasper Harwood. I am master here.” “Master!” Harwood started and a shade of pallor crept into his face. “What do you want here?” “To take this poor girl, and place her among friends,” he pointed to Laura as he spoke. “Am I, her uncle, not her friend?” Jasper Harwood advanced upon Tom, but the masked young swamp-rider looked him fearlessly in the eye. “Who are you, sir?” the older man demanded, furiously, “who are you, I say?” Tom turned and held up his hand with a proud gesture. “Stand out, my gallant lads,” he cried, his eye flashing. The masks were torn from the faces of the backwoodsmen, and they stood forth with musket, pistol and naked sabre, facing the startled guests of Jasper Harwood. “These!” cried Tom, his glance sweeping the brilliant throng of officers who stood, their swords half drawn, looking at him astounded, “these are Marion’s men.” “And you?” shouted Jasper Harwood. Tom plucked the covering from his face. “Look,” said he.