CHAPTER VIII. “FROM THAT SPOT BY HORROR HAUNTED.”

“FROM THAT SPOT BY HORROR HAUNTED.”

Floy watched the punishment of Otho Maury with that boundless admiration a woman always feels for manly strength and power.

She thought that St. George Beresford was the grandest, bravest, most beautiful hero in the world, and her heart swelled with gratitude to him for his manly defense of a helpless girl.

But she was frightened, too, when she saw her persecutor’s body flying through the air, and she cried out, shudderingly:

“Oh, you have killed the wretch!”

But her preserver answered, coolly:

“No, indeed; more’s the pity! It’s only a few feet from the window to the ground. Besides, didn’t you hear the thud of his body on the soft wet grass? No bones will be broken, I assure you, though it ought to be his neck. But, anyway, this will teach him a much-needed lesson!”

[41]

[41]

And he laughed softly to himself at the ease with which he had sent Maury spinning through the window.

“Oh, I thank you so much—so much! I was so frightened!” faltered Floy, clasping her white hands in the intensity of her joy, and lifting to him her beautiful, clear blue eyes.

He smiled at her kindly, thinking to himself that it was the loveliest face in the round world, and answered:

“It was rather fortunate I came when I did, for I suspected the fellow had been drinking. That was why I followed him here when I found out he was coming.”

“Oh, how good you were—how good, I can never thank you enough!” cried Floy, putting out her hand to him in the exuberance of her gratitude.

Beresford clasped the little hand ardently, and longed to kiss it, but would not frighten her by such a demonstration.

“Poor little soul, she has been alarmed enough already,” he thought, generously; the pale cheeks and tear-wet lashes appealing to all the manliness within him.

“And now you will take me home, will you not?” 

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