Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece

CHAPTER XIV.

THE NEW CAPTAIN—HUNSTON'S TROUBLE—THE ARM AND ITS LEGEND—HOW
EMMERSON'S VENGEANCE WORKS STEALTHILY ON.

"What do you say, men, now?" demanded the huge Italian, as he wiped his sword.

"Huzza for Toro!"

"Have I fairly earned my right to take the lead here?"

"Yes, yes."

"I want you to be unanimous," he persisted.

"We are."

Toro fixed his eyes upon one or two of the disappointed supporters of Tomaso, who had not uttered a word since the discomfiture of their champion, and said to them especially—

"If any of you object to me as a leader, let them come forward now and speak up."

There were one or two murmuring voices.

"Look," cried the giant Toro, "men all, if any here still denies my power, let them step forward, and this sword shall prove my right."

This was final.

After the manner in which Toro had just dealt with their friend Tomaso, they were not encouraged to provoke a quarrel. And so, by his daring audacity and brute strength, Toro the Italian raised himself to the leadership of the Greek brigands.

None dared to dispute his sway from that moment.

Some had a difficulty to swallow the bitter pill, but the alternative was so very unpleasant that they got over it.

* * * * *

And Harkaway's enemy Hunston?

Why has he fallen so into the background of late?

His sole thoughts have been engrossed by the fearful sufferings to which he is subject.

That dreadful arm—the legacy of vengeance of the murdered Emmerson. Where the evil was it baffled all his skill to discover.

Slowly yet surely this horrible piece of mechanism was eating away its wearer's life.

"It seems almost as though some subtle poison were slowly injected into my body through this arm," thought Hunston, "and yet I can not work without it."

Never was vengeance more terrible than that of the dead Robert Emmerson.

The wonder was that Hunston lived through it.

His constitution must have been of iron.

The arm was removed, but only with infinite trouble and suffering; and then, after some considerable time, Hunston began to experience a faint sense of relief.

The sufferings slowly diminished.

This convinced Hunston that he had been correct in supposing that the poison was concealed in the mechanical arm.

He laid bare as much of it as he could without permanently damaging it, and pored over it for hours at a stretch.

To what good?

None.

Now this limb was the work of no common artificer.

It was the work of a hand of rare cunning.

A master spirit had invented it, and its mystery was far too deep to be penetrated by a common bungler.

Hunston was at last so tortured that, disguising himself, he one day left the mountains, and sought the advice of a surgeon.

"The man who planned this arm," said the surgeon to whom Hunston submitted it for examination, "must have devoted a lifetime to the manufacture and perfecting of this mechanical limb."

Hunston smiled.

He knew too well how little time the wretched man Emmerson gave to any thing like industrial pursuits.

"What is this?" asked this same surgeon, pointing to the flat of the arm, where the engraved legend was almost obscured with a dark stain.

Hunston changed colour and fidgeted about.

"I don't know."

"There is something written."

"Yes, yes, so I believe, but it is obscured by that stain—a stain—"

He peered closer into the arm yet, and looked serious, as turning to Hunston, he said—

"Why, it is a blood-stain."

"No, no!" replied Hunston, hurriedly; "impossible. It can not be."

"Impossible or not," said the surgeon, "blood it is, and nothing but blood. Yet I see that, in spite of this stain, the reading is clear enough."

"Scarcely," said Hunston.

"It is, though, and it is in English, I should say, too."

"Yes."

"Can't you read it?"

"No."

"Strange. Yet you are English."

"Yes."

"Well, I have some English friends here to whom I will show it, and—"

Hunston broke in impatiently at this.

"English here!" he exclaimed. "Where do they live?"

"At the villa—"

"What, the Harkaway family, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"And you would take it there?"

"Why not? Mr. Harkaway is a clever man. He is surrounded also by clever people; there is a curious old gentleman there, too, an old gentleman of great learning, and he might be enabled to throw some light upon the secret, which even the closest scrutiny can not penetrate."

Hunston listened to the end, but not without having to exercise a certain amount of self-control.

"How is this old gentleman called—this clever, learned old gentleman?"

"You seem to say that with a sneer, sir," said the surgeon; "but you may rely upon it he is a very great savant—a man of great accomplishments—and a warrior who has—"

"Who has lost two legs!"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Slightly; his name is Mole."

"It is."

"And you would take my arm to these people for them to stare and gape at. No, sir; I am foolish enough to seek to conceal my affliction from the world, and by the aid of this wonderful arm I have been hitherto successful."

The doctor bowed.

"So I beg you will keep my secret."

"Rely upon it."

Hunston showed all his old cunning in this speech. Yet all his inquiries, all his researches, availed him nothing.

The work of the dead Robert Emmerson remained as before, an inscrutable mystery. It remained the silent executor of its creator's vengeance.

Slowly, yet surely fulfilling the blood-stained legend on the steel arm.

CHAPTER XV.

HUNSTON AGAIN AT WORK-THE DANCING GARDEN—MARIETTA AND HER
GOSSIP-GREAT NEWS—THE ARREST—WHAT CHARGE?—MURDER.

Hunston's infirmity had told in many ways.

He had sunk to be a mere nonentity in the band.

Now he was but too pleased to be left at peace when in his great suffering; yet no sooner did he recover health and spirits a little than his old interest revived, and with his interest all the old jealousies.

He bitterly resented Toro's assumption of the command.

"Let the blustering bully fool impose upon them if he will," he said to himself again and again; "he never could take me in. It shall be my task to show them who can render the most real service to the band."

Their programme suited Hunston well.

What could better have accorded with his humour than the devotion of all their time, thought, and energies to the persecution—perhaps to the entire destruction, of the Harkaway family?

It was all gone on with avowedly to avenge the death of Mathias.

Little cared Hunston about the dead brigand chief.

Indeed, but for the presence of his widow in their midst, and the occasional mention of his name, Hunston would, in all probability, have forgotten that he had ever existed.

As it was, he made it his especial task to hang about the parts of the town where the Harkaways were most likely to be met. And never did he appear twice in the same dress.

One evening, strolling into a dancing garden, he chanced to come upon a smart young lady, whose appearance attracted his attention at once.

"I know her well," he said to himself, "though where I have seen her is a puzzle to me for a moment."

The merry antics of one of the dancers caused her to laugh, and then he recognised the sound of her voice immediately.

"Marietta!"

Surely he should not so soon have forgotten her.

Was it not upon the occasion of her memorable exploits at the gardens of the Contessa Maraviglia that he had last seen her—that night when poor Magog Brand met his fate?

As soon as he recognised her, he made up his mind to escort her.

So first (to assure himself of the excellence of his disguise) catching a cursory glance of his shadow in a mirror, he crossed the garden, and stepping up to her side, he addressed her.

"Do you not join the dance, signorina?" he said.

The waiting maid in reply only cocked her chin haughtily and moved away.

"You are proud, Marietta, to-night," said Hunston.

She turned upon hearing her name mentioned.

"I do not know you, sir."

"But you see I know you, Marietta, and what is more, if you were to ask your master Mr. Harkaway or Mrs. Harkaway about their friend Saville, I dare say they would not say any thing very bad about him."

Marietta curtseyed in some confusion.

"I don't remember seeing you at the villa, signor," she said, "so pray excuse me."

"No excuses, pretty Marietta; I am not a very constant visitor, yet I have seen you, and yours is a face once seen not easily forgotten."

Marietta, like a true daughter of Eve, did not object to this sort of thing.

And so she fell into the trap which he set for her with so little pains.

That is, she grew gossipy and communicative.

"And does Master Jack come here sometimes?" asked the sham Mr. Saville.

She shook her head.

"Never."

"Mamma would object, of course," he said lightly; "this is such a wicked place for her good, mild, innocent boy to come to."

Marietta laughed a good deal at hearing young Jack spoken of thus.

"Neither of the young gentlemen are too innocent," she said; "but yet they don't come here."

"Possibly they have no taste for this sort of thing," suggested Hunston.

Marietta shrugged her shoulders.

"They are forbidden to go about alone."

"Why?"

"I don't know—some fancy of the ladies. They think that the brigands are always lurking about, ready to drop upon their boys."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Hunston; "a very good joke."

"Is it not? Although I must tell you that there is some reason for fear, for I have twice come across the—"

"Across who?"

"The brigands."

"Impossible."

"It is true."

"The miscreants. Did they steal any thing?"

"Well, only a few—a few kisses."

"Hum!" said Hunston, "that was excusable. It is a sort of pilfering which I would willingly indulge in myself."

"I dare say," answered Marietta saucily, "but I have discovered how to use my weapons in self-defence."

"What weapons?"

"These."

She held up her ten pretty little claws. A tiny hand they were mounted on, too.

Hunston surveyed it with the eye of a connoisseur, and looked the admiration he wished to convey quite extravagantly enough for a vain woman to understand his meaning.

"Exquisite," he said. "It would be flattery even to be scratched by such models."

She laughed.

He resumed.

"And so they never go forth for fear of the brigands?"

"Never."

"Their lives must be wretched, so confined to the house."

"Aye, but they go out to sea."

"To sea?"

"Yes, in their sailing boat; the two boys are always out fishing, sailing, and what not."

Hunston pricked up his ears at these tidings.

"Yes, on the water they are allowed full liberty, for brigands and cats, according to Signor Harvey, are the two animals that fear the water most."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Hunston, "very good indeed, but I never knew that brigands so feared the water."

"So Signor Harvey says," replied Marietta. "Indeed he says that a bar of soap and a bowl of water would frighten a brigand more than a whole armoury of firearms."

This was true.

Brigands may look picturesque when seen from a distance.

At close quarters they are, to put it mildly, objectionable.

If they do not hold soap and water in absolute fear, as Dick Harvey said, they at least look upon them as vanities and effeminacies unworthy of desperadoes.

* * * * *

"So, so," muttered Hunston, as he walked away, "I shall secure them yet. For through the boys I can get at the father and at Harvey. Hah!"

At this precise moment a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder.

There was a professional touch in it, which once felt could never be forgotten.

Hunston had felt such a clutch once in England, and the recollection was likely to last him as long as he lived.

He forgot where he was, every thing, and instinctively he faltered this inquiry—

"On what charge?"

"Murder!"

He knew the voice.

He had no need to look round; the voice was not one easily forgotten.

It was our old friend Pike, the English detective.

"Yes, Hunston," replied the officer coolly. "You have been giving me a lot of trouble, but it was only a question of time and patience, I knew. Come along; you are my prisoner."

CHAPTER XVI.

A GREAT DANGER—OFF AND AWAY!—POOR PIKE.

Hunston quailed. He was lost.

So suddenly—so unexpectedly had this come, that he was utterly powerless to help himself.

Had he been wearing the mechanical arm, he might have able to tackle the wiry officer Pike.

Bitterly did he curse his unlucky fate.

Recovering himself, however, in some slight degree, he endeavoured to shake off the detective's hold.

"Quiet, now, quiet, Master Hunston," said Pike, "or I shall have to try means for tranquilising you which you won't find agree with you."

"Show me your warrant for this outrage," said Hunston.

"Outrage! Hoity, toity! that's a good word."

"I shall call the police to my assistance if you attempt to molest me," said Hunston, putting on a lofty air.

This tickled Pike mightily.

"Call the police, will you?" he said. "Well, I shan't, for I flatter myself that I don't want much assistance to walk off with such a man as you—even if you were not lopsided."

Hunston turned savagely upon the detective at this allusion to his crippled state and made an attempt at using his one arm upon him.

But Pike was—to put it vulgarly—all there.

He dexterously dodged the blow, and whirling round secured a hold upon Hunston's collar—that peculiar grip which is the specialty of men who have been in the force.

Hunston struggled desperately to get free. In vain.

Do what he would, he found himself being trotted along to save himself from strangulation.

Not only was it physically painful.

Hunston had an overweening sense of his own importance and dignity, and this being run in just like some paltry pickpocket in a crowd, was galling to his vanity beyond all description.

What could he do?

He was powerless.

The wondering people stared at this singular exhibition, but they parted their ranks as Pike and his prisoner came along, and never offered to interfere.

Now, during this brief but painful business, Hunston's thoughts ran right ahead of the present dilemma.

He endeavoured to realise some of the possible consequences of it.

The arrest was, he felt assured, illegal.

What then?

What could result from such a proceeding?

Would they detain him?

Could they?—that was the question.

The British ambassador might be influenced by people of the rank and position of the Harkaways.

This granted, it was easy enough for his excellency to waive legal forms and ceremonies there, and get Hunston transferred to the safe keeping of the English authorities.

At this point Hunston could not repress a shudder.

And why? He thought of what must necessarily follow.

His fevered fancy flew ahead, and he saw himself in the dock, faced by the stony-faced judge, and put through the torture of cross-examination which laid bare the innermost recesses of his black heart in spite of himself.

He saw further on yet.

He shut his eyes as he went on and heard the tramp of the twelve jurors re-entering the court in the midst of a profound and awesome silence.

He heard the solemn formula; he heard the hollow voice of the foreman give the verdict—

"Guilty!"

All that he heard and saw in his mind's eye, in that brief but unpleasant hustling he had to go through at the hands of the ungenerous and indefatigable officer Daniel Pike.

And Hunston now, being half cowed by his captor, was being driven through the streets like a lamb to the slaughter, when a sudden and startling incident changed the whole spirit of the scene, even in the twinkling of an eye.

A musket, grasped in a strong hand by the barrel, was swung over their heads, and down it came with an awful crack upon poor Pike's head.

Down he dropped like a bullock under the butcher's pole-axe.

And Hunston was free.

For a few seconds he could not realise his release, so sudden and unexpected it had been.

"Come along," said a voice in his ear; "away with you, or we shall get into trouble here."

This aroused him.

He recognised the voice of Tomaso the brigand, and it brought him to his presence of mind.

Off he started at a good brisk run in the direction that his preserver had taken.

And soon was out of danger.

But Tomaso was not so fortunate.

Following Hunston at a more leisurely pace, he had not gone many yards, when a firm grip was placed upon his shoulder.

"Halt!" said a voice.

The brigand turned hastily, and found himself in the firm clutch of the detective.

"I have caught you at last, villain!" exclaimed Pike the detective, as he twisted his hand into the collar of the garment Tomaso wore instead of a shirt.

Then, before the astonished brigand had time either to remonstrate or resist, the Englishman exhibited to him that particular form of wrestling known as the "cross buttock," and stretched him at full length on the ground.

Another moment and a pair of real Bow Street handcuffs snapped on Tomaso's wrists.

"Neatly done; don't you think so?" said Pike.

Tomaso's answer was a tremendous Greek oath.

"You're swearing, I believe. Now that is a bad habit at all times, and very foolish just now, because you see it don't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't understand it," said Pike, who, after a brief, stern survey of his captive, added—

"If you cursed me in English, though, I don't know but what I might be tempted to punch your ugly head."

Tomaso remained silent, and Pike, after pausing some seconds, helped him to his feet.

"Now you are all right, and will come back quietly with me. But how do the bracelets fit? I've got another pair in my pocket."

"You had better release me," observed Tomaso.

"Now that is very ridiculous, my friend. Why should I take the trouble of capturing you, if I let you run again directly?"

"It will be much to your disadvantage to imprison me, Signor Englishman. An injured Greek is always avenged in some way."

"Just so; however, I'll risk that"

Pike's coolness added to the rage of the brigand, whose passion fairly boiled over.

"May all the infernal gods my forefathers worshipped—may the fiend I—"

"Serve," suggested Pike.

"The fiend I would willingly serve, or sell my soul to, for vengeance, visit you with his direst displeasure, and may all the plagues of Egypt blight you!"

"Thank ye, that's a very pleasant speech; something like what I used to hear at the theatre. But, old friend, you made one little blunder."

"You will see if I have blundered."

"One little blunder, when you spoke of selling your soul. Lor' bless you, Old Scratch isn't such a fool as to buy nowadays, whatever he may have done years ago."

Another angry exclamation from Tomaso.

"You see, the old gentleman has gained some experience as a trader, and he knows well enough that if he waits a little time, he'll get you all free-gratis for nothing at all."

"You are a devil, Englishman."

"And you are not exactly an angel. However, if I am a devil, you may consider you are regularly sold to me. So now come along; keep your hands under your cloak, and no one will notice the little decorations on your wrists."

"You are a devil, Signor Englishman; but you will die for this."

"Pshaw! I've collared scores of desperate villains, and they all said something of the same kind, yet here I am."

"You will die," repeated Tomaso.

"Some clay, of course; but we have a proverb in England; would you like to hear it?"

Tomaso tossed his head with lofty indifference.

"The proverb," continued Pike, "is that 'Threatened men live long.'"

He then took Tomaso by the arm, and led him on.

"But stop," said he, "those pistols in your girdle are very heavy. I'll carry them for you, and the knife as well."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DECOY—A THROW OF THE DICE—THE EXECUTION.

Before Pike and his captive had gone far on their return journey, Harkaway and Harvey, with two or three of the gendarmes, and a minute after Jefferson, came up.

"You have caught him then. Hurrah!" said Dick Harvey.

"But this is not Hunston," said Harkaway.

"No, sir; he managed to get clean away. But we'll have him yet."

An old goatherd, who had scrambled down near to the place where the captor and prisoner stood, might have been seen to indulge in a contemptuous smile.

We say might, because the fact is that all were so much elated at the capture of Tomaso that the very presence of the old stranger had hitherto remained unnoticed.

Nor did he seem to court attention, but remained behind a bush, in a spot, however, where he could hear all that passed.

"Well, we must take this fellow back to the town, and hand him over to the authorities," said Harvey.

"And then hunt down Master Hunston," remarked old Jack. "I wish we knew where to look for him."

"He took this direction," remarked Pike.

"True."

"And, therefore, it is in this direction that we must look for him."

"Right again," remarked Dick Harvey.

"But as he is associated with some desperate fellows, it would be as well to place this gentleman in the hands of the authorities before we seek him. It is not good to go into action with prisoners on our hands."

As all agreed on this point, they walked back with the prisoner, and had the pleasure of seeing him put into a cell from which, apparently, there was no way of escape, even the fire-place having been bricked up since the attempt of Mathias to gain freedom that way. By the time that was done it was too late to think of starting that day, so our friends retired to hold a council of war.

Pike, however, took no part in the consultation.

That astute detective had formed in his own mind a resolution that, if it were possible, he would capture Hunston single-handed, thus covering himself with glory, and at the same time keeping the Harkaways and Harvey out of danger.

Pike knew that it was a difficult thing to keep them out of danger, and that if they heard any thing about the brigands, they would be the very ones to lead an attack.

Pike walked up and down, smoking and reflecting on the difficulties which surrounded his task.

He had not thoroughly matured his plans when the sun went down and the moon rose.

Few people were abroad.

The audacity the brigands had recently displayed had convinced most people that they were safer indoors than out.

As Pike walked up and down the quiet street, he noticed an old man crouched up in a corner, wrapped in a tattered cloak, and apparently intending to pass the night there.

"Hilloa, my friend, what are you? Are you one of the brigands?"

Pike uttered the words in a jocular manner, but the old man felt deeply offended.

"Sir Englishman, you insult me."

"I apologise. I had no intention of doing so."

"A brigand! Signor, I am here—houseless and penniless in my old age through those accursed villains! May Sathanas fly away with their souls."

"Well, old man, perchance you will be avenged before long."

"It is what I pray for. They burnt my hut, cut down my two fine olive trees, and drove off my little flock of goats."

The old man covered his face, and appeared to sob violently.

"When was this?" asked Pike.

"Scarce three hours since."

"Was there with them a foreigner—one of my country?"

"I know not what country they were of, but besides the Greeks, there were two men who seemed leaders; one was called Signor Toro, the other was named Hunston."

"How many were there in all?"

"Three Greeks besides the two foreigners."

"Do you know any thing of the haunts of these brigands, friend goatherd?"

"Aye, well. But till now I have never dreamt of betraying them, for they never before molested me."

"Lead me to their den."

"You, signer? Why, they are at least five in number, and you are but—"

"But an Englishman! that makes all the difference, friend goatherd, so pray lead on. Here, take a drink from my flask first."

The old man accepted the proffered drink, and then said—

"Well, signor, it is a desperate and dangerous undertaking; but I know you English can do almost any thing, so I will show you the way. And if it comes to a fight, I shall be at your elbow, signor."

"True."

Without mentioning his intentions, or saying a word to any of his friends, the detective passed his arm through that of the goatherd and walked away.

Little conversation passed.

The detective was full of hopeful anxiety about the capture of Hunston; and as for the goatherd, it may be presumed that the loss of his goats afforded him plenty of food for silent reflection.

They passed the place where Tomaso was captured, and then turned aside out of the road into a dense wood which covered the side of a rocky hill.

It appeared as though the old goatherd was "out of condition," as the athletes say; at all events, the scramble up the rough path brought on a loud and distressing cough.

"Be quiet," said Pike; "you will alarm them."

"No fear of that, signor; we are more than a mile from the den of the villains."

So they scrambled and climbed away, till at length they reached a place where Pike found it necessary to use hands as well as feet to make progress.

He had just put up both hands to grasp a boulder over which it was necessary to climb, when, to his intense astonishment, each wrist was grasped by a couple of strong hands, and in another moment he was forcibly dragged up.

"The tables are turned now, Mr. Pike," said a voices "You will remain our prisoner till Tomaso is released."

It was so dark that Pike could not see the speaker, but he had no doubt that it was Hunston.

The impression was confirmed in an instant by the goatherd, who said in a jeering manner—

"Ha, ha, ha! Why don't you capture him? You were so very brave to talk, yet you do nothing."

Pike, by a sudden jerk, wrenched himself from his captors, and dealt the mocking brigand—for he was nothing more—a blow that doubled him up among the rocks.

But before the detective could escape, he was thrown down himself, and bound hand and foot.

Half-a-dozen Greek brigands then raised him and bore him away.

How far he could not tell, but it seemed, as far as he could guess, five or six miles.

At length they reached a little open glade in the forest where at least a score of brigands were assembled.

"You have him, then?" said a huge fellow, who spoke with an Italian accent.

"Yes."

"Tie him to that tree."

It was done.

"Now listen," said Toro—for he it was who had given the command. "If Tomaso is not at liberty and here among us at noon, you shall die."

"I can not set him at liberty."

"You can do a great deal towards it. Unfasten one of his arms—his right arm."

Pike's right arm was then released, and, in obedience to Toro's command, a small table was placed close to him.

On this table were pens, ink and paper.

"Now write to your friend Harkaway, and tell him that unless Tomaso is released by noon, as I have told you, death is your doom."

So Pike wrote—

"I am in the hands of the brigands, and unless Tomaso is released by noon, I shall be killed. But I am not afraid to die; hold your captive fast."

Having signed it, he held it out to Toro, who read it, and then called a messenger, to whom he entrusted it for delivery.

Then the brigands sat down to breakfast, and Pike was left to his contemplations. These, as may be imagined, were not of the most pleasant kind.

Hour after hour passed.

The brigands were some sleeping, some playing cards, and all enjoying themselves in some way, but no one took any notice of the prisoner.

The sun rode high in the heavens, and it was evidently approaching noon, when the messenger returned from the town with a letter.

It was addressed to Pike, but Toro opened it.

It was not from Harkaway, but from the chief of the police, informing the unfortunate detective that the Greek government declined to make any terms or drive any bargain with brigands, but that any ill usage Mr. Pike might suffer would be most effectually avenged.

"You hear this?" said Toro.

"I do."

"Then say what prayers you remember, and make your peace with Heaven, for at noon you die."

"Let me be the executioner," said a brigand who stood by.

"Not so," exclaimed another; "the task is mine by right."

"Peace!" said Toro. "The dice shall decide his fate. The highest thrower shall have the pleasure of shooting him."

The brigands, in obedience to a signal from the chief, gathered round him, a short distance from the prisoner.

Dice were produced and the game began.

"Double four," cried the first thrower.

"That man stands a good chance of being my executioner," thought Pike. "To fancy that I, who have been the terror of evil-doers in England, should be the sport of these dirty brigands. Why, I could well thrash half-a-dozen of them in a fair stand-up fight."

At this moment a loud peal of laughter greeted the second dicer.

"Ace—two."

"My chance is worthless," said the man.

"Worthless!" muttered Pike to himself. "Aye, you are indeed worthless, compared with some of the English villains I have hunted down and fought for life or death. I could die like a man if I only had to die in a fair hand-to-hand fight with such a man as Birmingham Bill, the very first murderer I ever coped with; but I'll show them how an Englishman can die."

"Double six!" shouted one of the brigands, as he threw the dice.

The man was the smallest and ugliest of the lot, but it seemed very probable that he would be Pike's executioner. At all events, he carefully loaded his carbine.

"To be shot by such a villain as that!" thought Pike. "It would have been better if one of the shots fired by that burglar fellow they call the 'Whitechapel, Devil' had taken effect; six times he fired, and then we had a good ten minutes' tussle before I could secure him."

At length all the brigands had thrown with the exception of Toro.

"Double six again!"

As it was a tie between the two, each had another throw. The little ugly brigand threw.

"Two—three."

Toro then took up the dice, shook them well in the box and made his cast.

"Five—four!"

And Toro was hailed the winner.

"Prisoner, I give you two minutes to prepare."

"Brigand, I am prepared. Such sins as I have committed, I have repented of, so do your worst; but rest assured that vengeance will some day overtake you. To Heaven I commend my soul!"

With as much composure as if he had been practising at an inanimate target, Toro raised his gun, and counted—

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

At the word three, he pulled the trigger. The report echoed from rock to rock, and the head and body of poor Pike fell forward, as far as the ropes that secured him to the tree would permit.

He was dead, the bullet having penetrated the brain.

* * * * *

That evening, as Harkaway, Harvey, and Jefferson returned from an unsuccessful attempt to rouse the authorities, they found that two men had left a heavy package at the house.

On opening it, they were horrified to find it a section of a hollow tree, nearly every portion of the wood having crumbled away, leaving the bark intact.

And in the hollow was the body of the poor detective and a brief note.

"The fate of all brigand hunters. Beware!—TORO."

"Vengeance for this, at all events," exclaimed Harkaway.

"Poor Pike! We should be unworthy of the name of Englishmen did we not punish thy murderers."

He wrote a note to the mayor.

"SIR,—In the huge package that accompanies this note, you will find the body of an Englishman, who has this day been murdered by brigands; I call upon you, in the name of Heaven, to rout these murderers out of their dens, and bring them to justice. Should you show any backwardness in so doing, I shall deem it necessary to appeal to the English ambassador.

"Your obedient servant,
"J. HARKAWAY."

Having despatched a couple of messengers with the body and letter, they sat down with sorrowful hearts and small appetites to their evening meal.