“That’s no odds; he said so to me, and he told me if you made any row to tell you that you were watched, and might just as well give up at once.” “Watched!” said I, wonderingly. “Yes--for fear you’d get skittish, and try and do something foolish. Old Potts is bound to keep you under his thumb.” I turned away. I did not care much. I felt more surprise than any thing else to think that he would take the trouble to watch me. Whether he did or not was of little consequence. If I could only be where I had the sea before me it was enough. That day, on going back to the Hall, I saw John sitting on the piazza. A huge bull-dog which he used to take with him every where was lying at his feet. Just before I reached the steps a Malay servant came out of the house. He was about the same age as John. I knew him to be a Malay when I first saw him, and concluded that my father had picked him up in the East. He was slight but very lithe and muscular, with dark glittering eyes and glistening white teeth. He never looked at me when I met him, but always at the ground, without seeming to be aware of my existence. The Malay was passing out when John called out to him, “Hi, there, Vijal!” Vijal looked carelessly at him. “Here!” cried John, in the tone with which he would have addressed his dog. Vijal stopped carelessly. “Pick up my hat, and hand it to me.” His hat had fallen down behind him. Vijal stood without moving, and regarded him with an evil smile. “D--n you, do you hear?” cried John. “Pick up my hat.” But Vijal did not move. “If you don’t, I’ll set the dog on you,” cried John, starting to his feet in a rage. Still Vijal remained motionless. “Nero!” cried John, furiously, pointing to Vijal, “seize him, Sir.” The dog sprang up and at once leaped upon Vijal. Vijal warded off the assault with his arm. The dog seized it, and held on, as was his nature. Vijal did not utter a cry, but seizing the dog, he threw him on his back, and flinging himself upon him, fixed his own teeth in the dog’s throat. John burst into a torrent of the most frightful curses. He ordered Vijal to let go of the dog. Vijal did not move; but while the dog’s teeth were fixed in his arm, his own were still fixed as tenaciously in the throat of the dog. John sprang forward and kicked him with frightful violence. He leaped on him and stamped on him. At last, Vijal drew a knife from his girdle and made a dash at John. This frightened John, who fell back cursing. Vijal then raised his head. The dog lay motionless. He was dead. Vijal sat down, his arm running blood, with the knife in his hand, still glaring at John. During this frightful scene I stood rooted to the spot in horror. At last the sight of Vijal’s suffering roused me. I rushed forward, and tearing the scarf from my neck, knelt down and reached out my hand to stanch the blood. Vijal drew back. “Poor Vijal,” said I, “let me stop this blood. I can dress wounds. How you suffer!”