“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: