Eleanor raised her head and gazed at him so expressionlessly that he started perceptibly; all life, all beauty, all consciousness, mental, spiritual, and physical, seemed suddenly to have left her face. She went forward to him like one walking to death in sleep, and the only words that seemed, as it were, to drip and continually drip relentlessly on her brain, were these: “The end, the end!” He sprang forward and covered her hand with burning kisses. “Thou’rt mine, Eleanor—mine at last.” But suddenly he paused, startled. A low rustle, or trampling sound, as of innumerable bare feet rushing across the town, had caught his ear. And the voice of Hugh Rouse, far away, called loudly: “Quick, Manteo, this way! Thank God, we may yet save Vytal!” On this Eleanor drew back with a cry of gladness, and Frazer hesitated. A Spanish soldier appeared at the door. “Shall we reinforce them?” “Nay, keep your men around this cabin.” He turned to Eleanor, snapping his fingers carelessly. “Foh! a _fico_ for the battle! You see I value your love higher even than our cause, and whether you will or not, I shall force it from you.” With this he started eagerly toward her, arms outstretched and eyes brilliant. But Eleanor, quick as lightning, drew from her bosom a small poniard and held its point to her breast. “Another step,” she said, calmly, “and I stab myself.” He paused, in genuine amazement. His supreme self-love had never dreamed of this—that a woman would rather kill herself than become his wife. “I no longer need to save others,” added Eleanor, triumphantly; “it is myself I save.” For a moment he stood abashed, the very picture of chagrin; but then the light of a new impulse leaped into his eyes. “Ay, but there shall be another,” he cried, “demanding your sacrifice,” with which, before she had divined his intent, he grasped Virginia in his arms and carried her to the doorway. “She is almost as beautiful,” he sneered, “and much younger.” “Stay!” and Eleanor, swaying as if she must fall, cried out again in anguish, “Stay, I implore you—stay!” He turned, laughing. “Nay, Mistress Dare; first throw away thy poniard.” With a strenuous effort to stand erect, she obeyed, and the weapon fell at her feet. Evidently satisfied, he now released his hold on Virginia, and, swaggering forward, with an air of bravado, put an arm about Eleanor’s waist, while the daughter, utterly dazed, stood speechless, watching him. “My dear love,” he murmured, caressingly, “rebel not against fate. We shall be very happy as king and queen.” It seemed as if there were a tone of real tenderness in his voice, while gently he led her to the door. But her own voice was silent as the grave, and again her whole being seemed hopelessly inert. Before passing out he bent over her, and, with both arms, crushed her to him in a tense embrace. Then he started back and his face went pale as death.