Leaping with a single bound to his saddle, he stood erect for a moment, then vigorously applying his spurs, he had vanished in an instant from the sight.  She paused in the doorway until the sounds of his hurrying progress had ceased to fall upon her ears; then, with a mournful spirit and heavy step, slowly re-entered the apartment.

CHAPTER XX.

THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM.

Lucy Munro re-entered the dwelling at a moment most inopportune.  It was not less her obvious policy than desire—­prompted as well by the necessity of escaping the notice and consequent suspicions of those whom she had defrauded of their prey, as by a due sense of that delicate propriety which belonged to her sex, and which her education, as the reader will have conjectured, had taught her properly to estimate—­that made her now seek to avoid scrutiny or observation at the moment of her return.  Though the niece, and now under the sole direction and authority of Munro, she was the child of one as little like that personage in spirit and pursuit as may well be imagined.  It is not necessary that we should dwell more particularly upon this difference.  It happened with the two brothers, as many of us have discovered in other cases, that their mental and moral make, though seemingly under the same tutorship, was widely dissimilar.  The elder Munro, at an early period in life, broke through all restraints—­defied all responsibilities—­scorned all human consequences—­took no pride or pleasure in any of its domestic associations—­and was only known as a vicious profligate, with whom nothing might be done in the way of restraint or reformation.  When grown to manhood, he suddenly left his parental home, and went, for a time, no one could say whither.  When heard of, it appeared from all accounts that his licentiousness of habit had not deserted him:  still, however, it had not, as had been anticipated, led to any fearful or very pernicious results.  Years passed on, the parents died, and the brothers grew more than ever separate; when, in different and remote communities, they each took wives to themselves.

The younger, Edgar Munro, the father of Lucy, grew prosperous in business—­for a season at least—­and, until borne down by a rush of unfavorable circumstances, he spared neither pains nor expense in the culture of the young mind of that daughter whose fortunes are now somewhat before us.  Nothing which might tend in the slightest to her personal improvement had been withheld; and the due feminine grace and accomplishment which followed these cares fitted the maiden for the most refined intellectual converse, and for every gentle association.  She was familiar with books; had acquired a large taste for letters; and a vein of romantic enthusiasm, not uncommon to the southern temperament, and which she possessed in a considerable degree, was not a little sharpened and exaggerated by the works which fell into her hands.