“I think I do, sir,” replied the astonished negro, who imperfectly comprehended the affair. Margaret knew all now. Her father had challenged her betrothed. The only two beings whom she loved supremely on this earth, were in a few hours hence to meet in mortal combat. With a heart that seemed paralyzed within her suffocating bosom, she crept, reeling, to her own chamber, and with the habitual instinct of soliciting Divine counsel and assistance, she sank upon her knees beside the bed. But no petition escaped her icy lips, or even took the form of words in her paralyzed brain; her intellect seemed frozen with horror; and her only form of prayer was the eloquent, mute attitude, and the intense yearning of the suffering heart after the All Merciful’s help and pity. She remained many minutes in this posture of silent prayer, before the power of reflection and of language returned to her, and even then her only cry was: “Oh, God of pity, have mercy on them! Oh, God of strength, help and save!” Then still looking to the Lord for guidance, she tried to think what was best to be done. It was now ten o’clock. Day would break at four. There were but six hours of a night to do all, if anything could be done. But what, indeed, could she do? Cut off by the bay from all the rest of the world, and with fifteen miles of water between herself and the nearest magistrate, what could the miserable maiden do to prevent this duel between her father and her lover? To a religious heart filled to overflowing with love and grief, and resolved upon risking everything for the safety of the beloved, almost all things are possible. Her first resolution was the nearly hopeless one of going to her father and beseeching him to abandon his purpose. And if that failed, she had in reverse a final, almost desperate determination. But there was not a moment to be lost. Still mentally invoking Divine aid, she arose and went to the door of her father’s study. It was closed; but turning the latch very softly, she entered unperceived. Major Helmstedt sat at his table, so deeply absorbed in writing as not to be conscious of her presence, although his face was toward the door. That face was haggard with care, and those keen, strong eyes that followed the rapid gliding of his pen over the paper were strained with anxiety. So profound was his absorption in his work that the candles remained unsnuffed and burning with a murky and lurid light, and the cup of coffee on his table sat cold and untouched. Margaret approached and looked over his shoulder. It was his last will and testament that he was engaged in preparing. The sight thrilled his daughter with a new horror. Meekly she crept to his side and softly laid her hand upon his shoulder, and gently murmured: “Father, my dear father!” He looked up suddenly, and in some confusion.