A STRUGGLE.
All the irresolution which for a time had characterized Despard had
vanished before the shock of that great discovery which his father’s
manuscript had revealed to him. One purpose now lay clearly and vividly
before him, one which to so loyal and devoted a nature as his was the
holiest duty, and that was vengeance on his father’s murderers.
In this purpose he took refuge from his own grief; he cast aside his own
longings, his anguish, his despair. Langhetti wished to search after his
“Bice;” Despard wished to find those whom his dead father had denounced
to him. In the intensity of his purpose he was careless as to the means
by which that vengeance should be accomplished. He thought not whether
it would be better to trust to the slow action of the law, or to take
the task into his own hands. His only wish was to be confronted with
either of these men, or both of them.
It was with this feeling in his heart that he set out with Langhetti,
and the two went once more in company to the village of Brandon, where
they arrived on the first day of the “run on the bank.”
He did not know exactly what it would be best to do first. His one idea
was to go to the Hall, and confront the murderers in their own place.
Langhetti, however, urged the need of help from the civil magistrate. It
was while they were deliberating about this that a letter was brought in
addressed to the _Rev. Courtenay Despard_.
Despard did not recognize the handwriting. In some surprise how any one
should know that was here he opened the letter, and his surprise was
still greater as he read the following:
“SIR,--There are two men here whom you seek--one Potts, the other Clark.
You can see them both at any time.
“The young lady whom you and Signor Langhetti formerly rescued has
escaped, and is now in safety at Denton, a village not more than twenty
miles away. She lives in the last cottage on the left-hand side of the
road, close by the sea. There is an American elm in front.”
There was no signature.
Despard handed it in silence to Langhetti, who read it eagerly. Joy
spread over his face. He started to his feet.
“I must go at once,” said he, excitedly. “Will you?”
“No,” replied Despard. “You had better go. I must stay; my purpose is a
different one.”
“But do not you also wish to secure the safety of Bice?”
“Of course; but I shall not be needed. You will be enough.”
Langhetti tried to persuade him, but Despard was immovable. For himself
he was too impatient to wait. He determined to set out at once. He could
not get a carriage, but he managed to obtain a horse, and with this he
set out. It was about the time when the bank had closed.
Just before his departure Despard saw a man come from the bank and enter
the inn. He knew the face, for he had seen it when here before. It was
Clark. At the sight of this face all his fiercest instinct awoke within
him--a deep thirst for vengeance arose. He could not lose sight of
this man. He determined to track him, and thus by active pursuit to do
something toward the accomplishment of his purpose.
He watched him, therefore, as he entered the inn, and caught a hasty
glance which Clark directed at himself and Langhetti. He did not
understand the meaning of the scowl that passed over the ruffian’s face,
nor did Clark understand the full meaning of that gloomy frown which
lowered over Despard’s brow as his eyes blazed wrathfully and menacingly
upon him.
[Illustration: “THE NEXT INSTANT DESPARD HAD SEIZED HIS THROAT AND HELD
HIM SO THAT HE COULD NOT MOVE.”]
Clark came out and went to the bank. On quitting the bank Despard saw
him looking back at Langhetti, who was just leaving. He then watched him
till he went up to the Hall.
In about half an hour Clark came back on horseback followed by a dog. He
talked for a while with the landlord, and then went off at a slow trot.
On questioning the landlord Despard found that Clark had asked him about
the direction which Langhetti had taken. The idea at once flashed upon
him that possibly Clark wished to pursue Langhetti, in order to find out
about Beatrice. He determine on pursuit, both for Langhetti’s sake and
his own.
He followed, therefore, not far behind Clark, riding at first rapidly
till he caught sight of him at the summit of a hill in front, and then
keeping at about the same distance behind him. He had not determined
in his mind what it was best to do, but held himself prepared for any
course of action.
After riding about an hour he put spurs to his horse, and went on at
a more rapid pace. Yet he did not overtake Clark, and therefore
conjectured that Clark himself must have gone on more rapidly. He now
put his own horse at its fullest speed, with the intention of coming up
with his enemy as soon as possible.
He rode on at a tremendous pace for another half hour. At last the road
took a sudden turn; and, whirling around here at the utmost speed, he
burst upon a scene which was as startling as it was unexpected, and
which roused to madness all the fervid passion of his nature.
The road here descended, and in its descent wound round a hill and
led into a gentle hollow, on each side of which hills arose which were
covered with trees.
Within this glen was disclosed a frightful spectacle. A man lay on the
ground, torn from his horse by a huge blood-hound, which even then
was rending him with its huge fangs! The dismounted rider’s foot was
entangled in the stirrups, and the horse was plunging and dragging him
along, while the dog was pulling him back. The man himself uttered not a
cry, but tried to fight off the dog with his hands as best he could.
In the horror of the moment Despard saw that it was Langhetti. For
an instant his brain reeled. The next moment he had reached the spot.
Another horseman was standing close by, without pretending even to
interfere. Despard did not see him; he saw nothing but Langhetti. He
flung himself from his horse, and drew a revolver from his pocket. A
loud report rang through the air, and in an instant the huge blood-hound
gave a leap upward, with a piercing yell, and fell dead in the road.
Despard flung himself on his knees beside Langhetti. He saw his hands
torn and bleeding, and blood covering his face and breast. A low groan
was all that escaped from the sufferer.
“Leave me,” he gasped. “Save Bice.”
In his grief for Langhetti, thus lying before him in such agony, Despard
forgot all else. He seized his handkerchief and tried to stanch the
blood.
“Leave me!” gasped Langhetti again. “Bice will be lost.” His head, which
Despard had supported for a moment, sank back, and life seemed to leave
him.
Despard started up. Now for the first time he recollected the stranger;
and in an instant understood who he was, and why this had been done.
Suddenly, as he started up, he felt his pistol snatched from his hand by
a strong grasp. He turned.
It was the horseman--it was Clark--who had stealthily dismounted, and,
in his desperate purpose, had tried to make sure of Despard.
But Despard, quick as thought, leaped upon him, and caught his hand. In
the struggle the pistol fell to the ground. Despard caught Clark in his
arms, and then the contest began.
Clark was of medium size, thick-set, muscular, robust, and desperate.
Despard was tall, but his frame was well knit, his muscles and sinews
were like iron, and he was inspired by a higher Spirit and a deeper
passion.
In the first shock of that fierce embrace not a word was spoken. For
some time the struggle was maintained without result. Clark had caught
Despard at a disadvantage, and this for a time prevented the latter from
putting forth his strength effectually.
At last he wound one arm around Clark’s neck in a strangling grasp, and
forced his other arm under that of Clark. Then with one tremendous, one
resistless impulse, he put forth all his strength. His antagonist gave
way before it. He reeled.
Despard disengaged one arm and dealt him a tremendous blow on the
temple. At the same instant he twined his legs about those of the other.
At the stroke Clark, who had already staggered, gave way utterly and
fell heavily backward, with Despard upon him.
The next instant Despard had seized his throat and held him down so that
he could not move.
The wretch gasped and groaned. He struggled to escape from that iron
hold in vain. The hand which had seized him was not to be shaken off.
Despard had fixed his grasp there, and there in the throat of the
fainting, suffocating wretch he held it.
The struggles grew fainter, the arms relaxed, the face blackened, the
limbs stiffened. At last all efforts ceased.
Despard then arose, and, turning Clark over on his face, took the bridle
from one of the horses, bound his hands behind him, and fastened his
feet securely. In the fierce struggle Clark’s coat and waistcoat had
been torn away, and slipped down to some extent. His shirt-collar had
burst and slipped with them. As Despard turned him over and proceeded to
tie him, something struck his eye. It was a bright, red scar.
He pulled down the shirt. A mark appeared, the full meaning of which
he knew not, but could well conjecture. There were three brands--fiery
red--and these were the marks:
[Illustration: ^ /|\ [three lines, forming short arrow]
R [sans-serif R]
+ [plus sign] ]