Munro advanced and addressed her with some sternness—­“Why are you abroad, Lucy, and at this hour? why this disquietude, and what has alarmed you?—­why have you left your chamber?”

The uncle did not obtain, nor indeed did he appear to expect, any answer to his inquiries.  In the meanwhile, Rivers held possession of her arm, and she continued fruitlessly struggling for some moments in his grasp, referring at length to the speaker for that interference which he now appeared slow to manifest.

“Oh, sir! will you suffer me to be treated thus—­will you not make this man undo his hold, and let me retire to my chamber?”

“You should have been there long before this, Lucy,” was the reply, in a grave, stern accent.  “You must not complain, if, found thus, at midnight, in a part of the building remote from your chamber, you should be liable to suspicions of meddling with things which should not concern you.”

“Come, mistress—­pray answer to this.  Where have you been to-night—­what doing—­why abroad?  Have you been eavesdropping—­telling tales—­hatching plots?”

The natural ferocity of Rivers’s manner was rather heightened by the tone which he assumed.  The maiden, struggling still for the release for which her spirit would not suffer her to implore, exclaimed:—­

“Insolent!  By what right do you ask me these or any questions?  Unhand me, coward—­unhand me.  You are strong and brave only where the feeble are your opponents.”

But he maintained his grasp with even more rigidity than before; and she turned towards the spot at which stood her uncle, but he had left the apartment for a light.

“Your speech is bold, fair mistress, and ill suits my temper.  You must be more chary of your language, or you will provoke me beyond my own strength of restraint.  You are my property—­my slave, if I so please it, and all your appeals to your uncle will be of no effect.  Hark you! you have done that to-night for which I am almost tempted to put this dagger into your heart, woman as you are!  You have come between me and my victim—­between me and my enemy.  I had summed up all my wrongs, intending their settlement to-night.  You have thwarted all my hopes—­you have defrauded me of all my anticipations.  What is it prevents me from putting you to death on the spot?  Nothing.  I have no fears, no loves, to hold and keep me back.  I live but for revenge, and that which stays and would prevent me from its enjoyment, must also become its victim.”

At this moment, Munro returned with a lamp.  The affrighted girl again appealed to him, but he heeded her not.  He soon left the passage, and the outlaw proceeded:—­

“You love this youth—­nay, shrink not back; let not your head droop in shame; he is worthy of your love, and for this, among other things, I hate him.  He is worthy of the love of others, and for this, too, I hate him.  Fool that you are, he cares not for you.  ’Spite of all your aid to-night, he will not remember you to-morrow—­he has no thought of you—­his hope is built upon—­he is wedded to another.