“What right have you?” said Edith, haughtily. And then turning to the porter, she said, imperatively, “Open that gate at once.” But the obdurate porter did not obey her now any more than before. “Captain Mowbray,” said she, “order that man to open the gate.” “I will not,” said Mowbray, rudely. “Then I shall ride by your side till you go out.” “You shall not.” “Is that the way that a gentleman speaks to a lady?” “You won't get me into trouble, anyway.” “I don't intend to,” said Edith, scornfully. “It is my own act. You will not take me out, but I go out of my own accord.” The porter meanwhile stood bewildered, with the gate only partly open, holding it in this way, and waiting for the end of this singular scene. “Miss Dalton,” cried Mowbray, fiercely, “you will make me resort to extreme measures.” “You dare not!” cried Edith, who by this time was fearfully excited. She had a horse beneath her now. That horse seemed part of herself. In that horse's strength and speed she lost her own weakness, and so she was now resolved to stake every thing on one effort for liberty. “Don't force me to it,” said Mowbray, “or you will make me do something that I shall be sorry for.” “You dare not!” cried Edith again. “Do you dare to threaten me--me, the mistress of Dalton Hall?” “Catch hold of her reins, captain,” cried the porter, “and make her go back.” “Hold your bloody tongue!” roared Mowbray.--“Miss Dalton, you must go back.” “Never!” said Edith. “I will go out when you do.” “Then I will not go out at all. I will go back to the Hall.” “You shall not enter it,” said Edith, as firmly as though she possessed the keys of Dalton Hall. “Miss Dalton, you force me to use violence.” [Illustration: IN HER FRENZY EDITH STRUCK THAT HAND AGAIN AND AGAIN.] “You dare not use violence,” said Edith, with a look that overawed the craven soul of Mowbray. For Edith now was resolved to do any thing, however desperate, and even the threat of violence, though she felt that he was capable of it, did not deter her. The two faced one another in silence for a few moments, the one strong, muscular, masculine, the other slight, fragile, delicate; yet in that girlish form there was an intrepid spirit which Mowbray recognized, defiant, haughty, tameless, the spirit of all her fathers, strengthened and intensified by a vehement desire for that liberty that lay outside the gates. “Well,” said the porter, “I'd better be a-shuttin' the gates till you two settle yer business. She'll dash through if I don't. I see it in her eye.” “No, she won't,” said Mowbray. “Don't shut the gates; wait a moment.” Then turning to Edith, he said, “Miss Dalton, for the last time, I say go back, or you'll be sorry.” Edith looked steadfastly and sternly at the captain, but said not one word. The captain looked away. “Porter,” said he. “Sir.” “Hold her horse.” “But she'll rush through the gates. Shall I fasten them?”