And in no condition to be operated upon by Edith's beautiful and holy
influences.

They galloped into the yard--they galloped up to the house--their leader
threw himself heavily from his horse and advanced to the door.

It was the terrible and remorseless Thorg! No one could doubt the
identity for a single instant. The low, square-built, thick-set body,
the huge head, the bull neck, heavy jowl, coarse, sensual lips,
bloodshot eyes, and fiery visage surrounded with coarse red hair--the
whole brutalized, demonized aspect could belong to no monster in the
universe but that cross between the fiend and the beast called Thorg!
And now he came, intoxicated, inflamed, burning with fierce passions
from some fell scene of recent violence!

Pale as death, and nearly as calm, Edith awaited his coming. She could
not hope to influence this man or his associates. She knew her fate
now--it was death!--death by her own hand, before that man's foot should
profane her threshold! She knew her fate, and knowing it, grew calm and
strong. There were no more hopes or fears or doubts or trepidations.
Over the weakness of the flesh the spirit ruled victorious, and Edith
stood revealed to herself richly endowed with that heroism she had so
worshiped in others--in that supreme moment mistress of herself and of
her fate. To die by her own hand! but not rashly--not till a trial
should be made--not till the last moment. And how beautiful in this
last fateful moment she looked! The death pallor had passed from her
countenance--the summer breeze was lifting the light black curls--soft
shadows were playing upon the pearly brow--a strange elevation
irradiated her face, and it "shone as it had been the face of an angel."