“I know not how to account for this violence, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger with singular coolness; “all I can say is, that on me it is thrown away.”

“Refuse the compliance with the proposition I have made, and by heavens you have looked upon your last sun.  The pistols, sir, are cocked; if one fails, the other won’t.”

“This outrage, Sir Thomas, upon a stranger, in your own house, under the protection of your own roof, is as monstrous as it is cowardly.”

“My roof, sir, shall never afford protection to a villain,” said the baronet, in a loud and furious voice.  “Renounce my daughter, and that quickly.  No, sir, this roof will afford you no protection.”

[Illustration:  PAGE 446—­ Pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held ready]

“Well, sir, I cannot help that,” replied the stranger, deliberately taking out of his breast, where they were covered by an outside coat, a case of excellent pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held ready for action:  “If your roof won’t, these good friends will.  And now, Sir Thomas, hear me; lay aside your idle weapons, which, were I even unarmed, I would disregard as much as I do this moment.  Our interview is now closed; but before I go, let me entreat you to reflect upon the conditions I have offered you; reflect upon them deeply—­yes, and accept them, otherwise you will involve yourself in all the consequences of a guilty but unsuccessful ambition—­in contempt—­infamy—­and ruin.”

The baronet’s face became exceedingly blank at the exhibition of the fire-arms.  Pistol for pistol had been utterly out of the range of his calculations.  He looked upon the stranger with astonishment, not un-mingled with a considerable portion of that wholesome feeling which begets self-preservation.  In fact, he was struck dumb, and uttered not a syllable; and as the stranger made his parting bow, the other could only stare at him as if he had seen an apparition.

CHAPTER XXII.  Lucy at Summerfield Cottage.

On his way to the inn, the stranger could not avoid admiring the excellent sense and prudence displayed by Lucy Gourlay, in the brief dialogue which we have already detailed to our readers.  He felt clearly, that if he had followed up his natural impulse to ascertain the place of her retreat, he would have placed himself in the very position which, knowing her father as she did, she had so correctly anticipated.  In the meantime, now that the difficulty in this respect, which she had apprehended, was over, his anxiety to know her present residence returned upon him with full force.  Not that he thought it consistent with delicacy to intrude himself upon her presence, without first obtaining her permission to that effect.  He was well and painfully aware that a lying report of their elopement had gone abroad, but as he did not then know that this calumny had been principally circulated by unfortunate Crackenfudge, who, however, was the dupe of Dandy Dulcimer, and consequently took the fact for granted.