ON THE ROAD.
On the following morning Brandon started from the Hall at an early hour.
He was on horseback. He rode down through the gates. Passing through the
village he went by the inn and took the road to Denton.
He had not gone far before another horseman followed him. The latter
rode at a rapid pace. Brandon did not pay any especial attention to
him, and at length the latter overtook him. It was when they were nearly
abreast that Brandon recognized the other. It was Vijal.
“Good-morning,” said Vijal.
“Good-morning,” replied Brandon.
“Are you going to Denton?”
“Yes.”
“So am I,” said Vijal.
Brandon was purposely courteous, although it was not exactly the thing
for a gentleman to be thus addressed by a servant. He saw that this
servant had overreached himself, and knew that he must have some motive
for joining him and addressing him in so familiar a manner.
He suspected what might be Vijal’s aim, and therefore kept a close watch
on him. He saw that Vijal, while holding the reins in his left hand,
kept his right hand concealed in his breast. A suspicion darted across
his mind. He stroked his mustache with his own right hand, which he kept
constantly upraised, and talked cheerfully and patronizingly with his
companion. After a while he fell back a little and drew forth a knife,
which he concealed in his hand, and then he rode forward as before
abreast of the other, assuming the appearance of perfect calm and
indifference.
“Have you left Potts?” said Brandon, after a short time.
“No,” replied Vijal.
“Ah! Then you are on some business of his now?”
“Yes.”
Brandon was silent.
“Would you like to know what it is?” asked Vijal.
“Not particularly,” said Brandon, coldly.
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you choose.”
Vijal raised his hand suddenly and gave a quick, short jerk. A cord flew
forth--there was a weight at the end. The cord was flung straight at
Brandon’s neck.
But Brandon had been on his guard. At the movement of Vijal’s arm he had
raised his own; the cord passed around him, but his arm was within its
embrace. In his hand he held a knife concealed. In an instant he slashed
his knife through the windings of the cord, severing them all; then
dropping the knife he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat, and
before Vijal could recover from his surprise he drew forth a revolver
and pointed it at him.
[Illustration: VIJAL LOOKED EARNESTLY AT IT. HE SAW THESE WORDS: “JOHN
POTTS.”]
Vijal saw at once that he was lost. He nevertheless plunged his spurs
into his horse and made a desperate effort to escape. As his horse
bounded off Brandon fired. The animal gave a wild neigh, which sounded
almost like a shriek, and fell upon the road, throwing Vijal over his
head.
In an instant Brandon was up with him. He leaped from his horse before
Vijal had disencumbered himself from his, and seizing the Malay by the
collar held the pistol at his head.
“If you move,” he cried, sternly, “I’ll blow your brains out!”
Vijal lay motionless.
“Scoundrel!” exclaimed Brandon, as he held him with the revolver pressed
against his head, “who sent you to do this?”
Vijal in sullen silence answered nothing.
“Tell me or I’ll kill you. Was it Potts?”
Vijal made no reply.
“Speak out,” cried Brandon. “Fool that you are, I don’t want _your_
life.”
“You are the murderer of my father,” said Vijal, fiercely, “and
therefore I sought to kill you.”
Brandon gave a low laugh.
“The murderer of your father?” he repeated.
“Yes,” cried Vijal, wildly; “and I sought your death.”
Brandon laughed again.
“Do you know how old I am?”
Vijal looked up in amazement. He saw by that one look what he had not
thought of before in his excitement, that Brandon was a younger man than
himself by several years. He was silent.
“How many years is it since your father died?”
Vijal said nothing.
“Fool!” exclaimed Brandon. “It is twenty years. You are false to your
father. You pretend to avenge his death, and you seek out a young man
who had no connection with it. I was in England when he was killed. I
was a child only seven years of age. Do you believe now that I am his
murderer?”
Brandon, while speaking in this way, had relaxed his hold, though he
still held his pistol pointed at the head of his prostrate enemy. Vijal
gave a long, low sigh.
“You were too young,” said he, at last. “You are younger than I am. I
was only twelve.”
“I could not have been his murderer, then?”
“No.”
“Yet I know who his murderer was, for I have found out.”
“Who?”
“The same man who killed my own father.”
Vijal looked at Brandon with awful eyes.
“Your father had a brother?” said Brandon.
“Yes.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Zangorri.”
“Right. Well, do you know what Zangorri did to avenge his brother’s
death?”
“No; what?”
“For many years he vowed death to all Englishmen, since it was an
Englishman who had caused the death of his brother. He had a ship; he
got a crew and sailed through the Eastern seas, capturing English ships
and killing the crews. This was his vengeance.” Vijal gave a groan.
“You see he has done more than you. He knew better than you who it was
that had killed your father.”
“Who was it?” cried Vijal, fiercely.
“I saw him twice,” continued Brandon, without noticing the question, of
the other. “I saw him twice, and twice he told me the name of the man
whose death he sought. For year after year he had sought after that man,
but had not found him. Hundreds of Englishmen had fallen. He told me the
name of the man whom he sought, and charged me to carry out his work of
vengeance. I promised to do so, for I had a work of vengeance of my own
to perform, and on the same man, too.
“Who was he?” repeated Vijal, with increased excitement.
“When I saw him last he gave me something which he said he had worn
around his neck for years. I took it, and promised to wear it till the
vengeance which he sought should be accomplished. I did so for I too had
a debt of vengeance stronger than his, and on the same man.”
“Who was he?” cried Vijal again, with restless impetuosity.
Brandon unbuttoned his vest and drew forth a Malay creese, which was
hung around his neck and worn under his coat.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, solemnly.
Vijal took it and looked at it earnestly. His eyes dilated, his nostrils
quivered.
“My father’s!” he cried, in a tremulous voice.
“Can you read English letters?”
“Yes.”
“Can you read the name that is cut upon it?”
And Brandon pointed to a place where some letters were carved.
Vijal looked earnestly at it. He saw these words:
JOHN POTTS.
“That,” said Brandon, “is what your father’s brother gave to me.”
“It’s a lie!” growled Vijal, fiercely.
“It’s true,” said Brandon, calmly, “and it was carved there by your
father’s own hand.”
Vijal said nothing for a long time. Brandon arose, and put his pistol
in his pocket. Vijal, disencumbering himself from his horse, arose also.
The two stood together on the road.
For hours they remained there talking. At last Brandon remounted and
rode on to Denton. But Vijal went back to the village of Brandon. He
carried with him the creese which Brandon had given him.