"Nay, nay, let her run! Let her run! Give her a fair start, and do you give chase! It will be the rarest sport! Fox-hunting is a good thing, but girl-chasing must be the very h--l of sport, when I tell you--mind, I tell you, men--she shall be the exclusive prize of him who catches her!" swore the remorseless Thorg. Edith had gained the back door. They started in pursuit. "Now, by the living Lord that made me, the first man that lays hands on her shall die!" suddenly exclaimed the young ensign, wresting his sword from the hand of the corporal, springing between Edith and her pursuers, flashing out the blade, and brandishing it in the faces of the foremost. He was but a stripling, scarcely older than Edith's self--the arm that wielded that slender blade scarcely stronger than Edith's own--but the fire that flashed from the eagle eye showed a spirit to rescue or die in her defense. Thorg threw himself into the most frantic fury--a volley of the most horrible oaths was discharged from his lips. "Upon that villain, men! Beat him down! Slay him! Pin him to the ground with your bayonets! And then! do your will with the girl!" But before this fiendish order could be executed, ay, before it was half spoken, whirled into the yard a body or about thirty horsemen, galloping fiercely to the rescue with drawn swords and shouting voices. They were nearly three times the number of the foraging soldiers. CHAPTER III. YOUNG AMERICA IN 1814. Young students of the neighboring academy--mere boys of from thirteen to eighteen years of age, but brave, spirited, vigorous lads, well mounted, well armed, and led on by the redoubtable college hero, Cloudesley Mornington. They rushed forward, they surrounded, they fell upon the marauders with an absolute shower of blows. "Give it to them, men! This for Fanny! This for Edith! And this! and this! and this for both of them!" shouted Cloudesley, as he vigorously laid about him. "Strike for Hay Hill and vengeance! Let them have it, my men! And you, little fellows! Small young gentlemen, with the souls of heroes, and the bodies of elves, who can't strike a very hard blow, aim where your blows will tell! Aim at their faces. This for Fanny! This for Edith!" shouted Cloudesley, raining his strokes right and left, but never at random. He fought his way through to the miscreant Thorg. Thorg was still on foot, armed with a sword, and laying about him savagely among the crowd of foes that had surrounded him. Cloudesley was still on horseback--he had caught up an ax that lay carelessly upon the lawn, and now he rushed upon Thorg from behind. He had no scruple in taking this advantage of the enemy--no scruple with an unscrupulous monster--an outlawed wretch--a wild beast to be destroyed, when and where and how it was possible!