Some hours afterward Despard called Brandon outside the cottage, and walked along the bank which overhung the beach. Arriving at a point several hundred yards distant from the cottage he stopped. Brandon noticed a deeper gloom upon his face and a sterner purpose on his resolute mouth. “I have called you aside,” said Despard, “to say that I am going on a journey. I may be back immediately. If I do not return, will you say to any one who may ask”--and here he paused for a moment--“say to any one who may ask, that I have gone away on important business, and that the time of my coming is uncertain.” “I suppose you can be heard of at Holby, in case of need.” “I am never going back again to Holby.” Brandon looked surprised. “To one like you,” said Despard, “I do not object to tell my purpose. You know what it is to seek for vengeance. The only feeling that I have is that. Love, tenderness, affection, all are idle words with me. “There are three who pre-eminently were concerned in my father’s death,” continued Despard. “One was Cigole. The Carbonari have him. Langhetti tells me that he must die, unless he himself interposes to save him. And I think Langhetti will never so interpose. Langhetti is dying--another stimulus to vengeance. “The one who has been the cause of this is Clark, another one of my father’s murderers. He is in the hands of the law. His punishment is certain. “There yet remains the third, and the worst. Your vengeance is satisfied on him. Mine is not. Not even the sight of that miscreant in the attitude of a bereaved father could for one moment move me to pity. I took note of the agony of his face. I watched his grief with joy. I am going to complete that joy. He must die, and no mortal can save him from my hands.” The deep, stern tones of Despard were like the knell of doom, and there was in them such determinate vindictiveness that Brandon saw all remonstrance to be useless. He marked the pale sad face of this man. He saw in it the traces of sorrow of longer standing than any which he might have felt about the manuscript that he had read. It was the face of a man who had suffered so much that life had become a burden. “You are a clergyman,” said Brandon at length, with a faint hope that an appeal to his profession might have some effect. Despard smiled cynically. “I am a man,” said he. “Can not the discovery of a sister,” asked Brandon, “atone in some degree for your grief about your father?” Despard shook his head wearily. “No,” said he, “I must do something, and only one purpose is before me now. I see your motive. You wish to stop short of taking that devil’s life. It is useless to remonstrate. My mind is made up. Perhaps I may come back unsuccessful. If so--I must be resigned, I suppose. At any rate you know my purpose, and can let those who ask after me know, in a general way, what I have said.”