"Ben, my lad," said the ruffian, "twist the old fool's neck we have no more time to lose." At that very moment the door was flung violently open, and Clarence Linden stood within three paces of the reprobates and their prey. The taller villain had a miniature in his hand, and the old man clung to his legs with a convulsive but impotent clasp; the other fellow had already his gripe upon Talbot's neck, and his right hand grasped a long case-knife. With a fierce and flashing eye, and a cheek deadly pale with internal and resolute excitement, Clarence confronted the robbers. "Thank Heaven," cried he, "I am not too late!" And advancing yet another step towards the shorter ruffian, who struck mute with the suddenness of the apparition, still retained his grasp of the old man, he fired his pistol, with a steady and close aim; the ball penetrated the wretch's brain, and without sound or sigh, he fell down dead, at the very feet of his just destroyer. The remaining robber had already meditated, and a second more sufficed to accomplish, his escape. He sprang towards the door: the ball whizzed beside him, but touched him not. With a safe and swift step, long inured to darkness, he fled along the passage; and Linden, satisfied with the vengeance he had taken upon his comrade, did not harass him with an unavailing pursuit. Clarence turned to assist Talbot. The old man was stretched upon the floor insensible, but his hand grasped the miniature which the plunderer had dropped in his flight and terror, and his white and ashen lip was pressed convulsively upon the recovered treasure. Linden raised and placed him on his bed, and while employed in attempting to revive him, the ancient domestic, alarmed by the report of the pistol, came, poker in hand, to his assistance. By little and little they recovered the object of their attention. His eyes rolled wildly round the room, and he muttered,--"Off, off! ye shall not rob me of my only relic of her,--where is it?--have you got it?--the picture, the picture!" "It is here, sir, it is here," said the old servant; "it is in your own hand." Talbot's eye fell upon it; he gazed at it for some moments, pressed it to his lips, and then, sitting erect and looking wildly round, he seemed to awaken to the sense of his late danger and his present deliverance. CHAPTER XIX. Ah, fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care! In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee! Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee!--SHELLEY. LETTER FROM ALGERNON MORDAUNT TO ISABEL ST. LEGER.