But the next moment Otho’s arms were caught in a grasp of steel, and a hoarse voice thundered: “Release the lady, you vile hound, and take your punishment!” It was St. George Beresford, raging like a lion in his fury, and as Maury’s grasp on Floy relaxed, he caught up the slim, wriggling coward in his athletic grasp, shook him contemptuously, and flew over to the window. Floy, raising up her eyes to her noble deliverer, saw him, pale with revengeful fury, as, with superb strength, he lifted Maury up to the window and hurled him through it over the tops of the lilacs far out into the grove. CHAPTER VIII. “FROM THAT SPOT BY HORROR HAUNTED.” Floy watched the punishment of Otho Maury with that boundless admiration a woman always feels for manly strength and power. She thought that St. George Beresford was the grandest, bravest, most beautiful hero in the world, and her heart swelled with gratitude to him for his manly defense of a helpless girl. But she was frightened, too, when she saw her persecutor’s body flying through the air, and she cried out, shudderingly: “Oh, you have killed the wretch!” But her preserver answered, coolly: “No, indeed; more’s the pity! It’s only a few feet from the window to the ground. Besides, didn’t you hear the thud of his body on the soft wet grass? No bones will be broken, I assure you, though it ought to be his neck. But, anyway, this will teach him a much-needed lesson!” And he laughed softly to himself at the ease with which he had sent Maury spinning through the window. “Oh, I thank you so much--so much! I was so frightened!” faltered Floy, clasping her white hands in the intensity of her joy, and lifting to him her beautiful, clear blue eyes. He smiled at her kindly, thinking to himself that it was the loveliest face in the round world, and answered: “It was rather fortunate I came when I did, for I suspected the fellow had been drinking. That was why I followed him here when I found out he was coming.” “Oh, how good you were--how good, I can never thank you enough!” cried Floy, putting out her hand to him in the exuberance of her gratitude. Beresford clasped the little hand ardently, and longed to kiss it, but would not frighten her by such a demonstration. “Poor little soul, she has been alarmed enough already,” he thought, generously; the pale cheeks and tear-wet lashes appealing to all the manliness within him. “And now you will take me home, will you not?” added Floy, appealingly. “Yes; for I came here with that purpose, and my carriage is waiting at the gate. Come,” he said, putting out the lamp and taking up the flaring lantern left by Otho Maury, as he moved toward the door. Floy paused to shut down the window, and followed him, oh, so gladly, out of that horror-haunted house in the sweet moist air of the spring night, breathing a sigh of relief when she found herself going down the graveled walk, through the grove, by Beresford’s side.