done—­his life at this moment in jeopardy; for a cursory glance at the tall figure of the marauder, as he had entered, had sufficed to show that the object of his search was before him—­and too well he knew the unscrupulous villany of the man to doubt for a moment what his conduct would be if he found his pursuer in his power.  If he could slip from the bed unobserved, and master the weapon on the table, he might effect his escape, and even secure the murderer; for he made light of the resistance that could be offered by the young woman, or by George.  But he felt, without opening his eyes, that the glance of the old man was fixed on him; and, with the determination to use his pistol on the first demonstration of violence, he resolved to wait the course of events.  The breakfast in the mean time was brought in, and Janet was about to remove the fowling-piece from the table, when she was startled by the rough voice of her father, ordering her to leave it alone, as it might have work to do before long.

The girl’s looks must have conveyed an enquiry; he answered them with a shake of his head towards the bed.  “I may have business to settle with him,” he said, in a hoarse whisper; and the girl pursued her task in silence.  The old man, after cautioning her not to touch the gun, turned to the dark press at one end of the room, and in about half a minute had filled his pipe with tobacco, and re-seated himself in the chair.  But Janet had seized the opportunity of his back being turned, and poured the hot water from the teapot into the touch-hole, and was again busy in arranging the cups and saucers.

     “Where’s George?” enquired the father; “but poh, he’s a
     chicken-hearted fellow, and would be of no use in case of a
     row”——­ So saying, he went on with his breakfast.

     “He’s awake!” he said suddenly.  “I seed his eye.”

     “Oh no, father! he’s too weak to open his eyes—­indeed he is.”

     “I seed his eye, I tell ye; and more than that, I’ve seed the
     eye afore.  Ha! am I betrayed?”

     He started up, and seized the fowling-piece.  His step sounded
     across the floor, and Berville threw down the clothes in a
     moment, and sprang to his feet.

“You here?” cried the ruffian, and levelled the gun, drew the trigger, and recoiled in blank dismay when he missed fire, and saw the athletic figure of Berville distended to its full size with rage, and a pistol pointed with deadly aim within a yard of his heart.  He raised the but-end of his gun; but his daughter, rushing forward, clung to his arm.

     “Fire not—­but fly!” she cried to Berville.  “Others are within
     call, and you are lost.”

     “Villain!” said Berville, “miscreant! murderer! you have but a
     moment to live”—­and cocked the pistol.

     “Let go my arm, girl,” cried the old man, struggling.