"Go! I beg you, go!" he said, releasing her hand, and stepping back. Meanwhile, Colden's men bounded in through the window. Rough, sturdy fellows were they, who landed heavily on the parlor floor, and blinked at the light, drawing the while the breeches of their short muskets from beneath their coats. Their hats and shoulders were coated with snow. "Take that rebel alive, if you can!" ordered Colden. "He's meant to hang! Stun him with your musket-butts!" The men quickly reversed their weapons, and strode heavily towards Harry. To their surprise, before they could bring down their muskets, which required both hands of each to hold, Harry dashed forward between them, thinking to cut down Colden with his broken sword, possess himself of the latter's pistol, shoot one of the soldiers, and meet the other on less unequal terms. He saw a possibility of his leaping through the open window and fleeing on one of the soldiers' horses, but the idea was accompanied by the thought that Elizabeth might be made to suffer for his escape. Her safety now depended on his getting the mastery over his three would-be captors. So, ere the two astonished fellows could turn, Harry had leaped within sword's reach of his doubly armed enemy. But Colden was now as alert as rigid, and he opposed his officer's sword against Peyton's broken cavalry blade, guarding himself with unexpected swiftness, and giving back, for Harry's sweeping stroke, a thrust which only the quickest and most dexterous movement turned aside from entering the Virginian's lungs. As Harry stepped back for an instant out of his adversary's reach, the Tory raised his pistol. At the same moment the two soldiers, having turned about, rushed on Peyton from behind. He heard them coming, and half turned to face them. Their movement had for him one fortunate circumstance. It kept Colden from shooting, for his bullet might have struck one of his own men.