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}