“Father, you cannot be in earnest,” she exclaimed, dreadfully alarmed at being in the power of a maniac, far from assistance, “you do not mean so.  Oh,” she said throwing herself into his arms, “I do not believe my father means to hurt me.”

“Why do you not fly?  Why do you throw your arms about me?  Do you think to defeat the decree?  Unwind your arms, I say, and be obedient unto death.”

So saying, with a gentle force he loosed the hold of the fainting girl, who with one hand embracing his knees, and the other held up to deprecate his violence, sunk at his feet.

“God have mercy upon us!  Christ have mercy upon us,” her pale lips faintly gasped.

“Faith, my precious, my darling,” said Armstrong, with a terrible calmness, as he drew a large knife out of his bosom, “You know I do not this of myself, but I dare not disobey the command.  It might endanger the soul of my child, which is dearer than her life.  Think, dear child, in a moment, you will be in Paradise.  It is only one short pang, and all is over.  Let me kiss you first.”

He stooped down, he inclosed her in his arms, and strained her to his heart—­he imprinted innumerable kisses on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead—­he groaned, and large drops of sweat stood on his face, pressed out by the agony.

“You will see your mother and my brother George, Faith.  Tell them not to blame me.  I could not help it.  You will not blame me, I know.  You never blamed me even in a thought.  I wish it was for you to kill me.  The father, it would seem ought to go first, and I am very weary of life.”

He raised the knife, and Faith, with upturned and straining eyes, saw it glittering in the sunshine.  She strove to cry out, but in vain.  From the parched throat no sound proceeded.  She saw the point about to enter her bosom.  She shut her eyes, and mentally prayed for her father.  At that moment, as the deadly instrument approached her heart, she heard a voice exclaim, “Madman forbear!” She opened her eyes:  the knife had dropped from her father’s hand; he staggered and leaned against the altar.  A few words will explain the timely interruption.

When Armstrong and his daughter left the carriage to cross the field, the mind of Felix was filled with a thousand apprehensions.  He would have followed had he dared to leave the horses, but this, his fear of the consequences if the high-spirited animals were left to themselves, forbade.  With anxious eyes he pursued the receding foot-steps of his master and young mistress until they were lost to sight, and then, with a foreboding of evil, hid his face in the flowing mane of one of the horses, as if seeking comfort from his dumb companion.  Some little time passed, which to the fearful Felix seemed hours, when, whom should he see but the man whom of all the world he dreaded most.  It was Holden, bounding along with strides which showed that the habits of his forest-life were not forgotten.  At any other time the apparition of the Solitary would have imparted anything but pleasure, but now it was as welcome as a spar to a shipwrecked sailor.  Holden advanced straight to the carriage, but before he could speak the black addressed him,