Vance stood with a look like that of St. George spearing the dragon. The past, with all its horrors, surged up on his recollection. He thought of that day of Estelle’s abduction,—of the escape and recapture,—of that scene at the whipping-post,—of the celestial smile she bent on him through her agony,—of the scourging he himself underwent, the scars of which he yet bore,—of those dreadful hours when he clung to the loosened raft in the river,—of the death scene, the euthanasia of Estelle, of his own despair and madness.
And here, before him, within his grasp, was the author of all these barbarities and indignities! Here was the man who had ordered and superintended the scourging of one in whom all the goodness and grace that ever made womanhood lovely and adorable had met! Here was the haughty scoundrel who had thought to bind her in marriage with one of his own slaves! Here was the insolent ruffian! Here the dastard murderer! What punishment could be equal to his crimes? Death? His life so worthless for hers so precious beyond all reckoning? Oh! that would go but a small way toward paying the enormous debt!
Vance carried in a secret pocket a pistol, and wore a small sword at his side. This last weapon Ratcliff tried to grasp, but failed. Vance looked inquiringly about the room. Ratcliff felt his danger, and struggled with the energy of despair. Vance, with the easy knack of an adroit wrestler, threw him on the floor, then dragging him toward the closet, pulled from a nail a thick leather strap which hung there, having been detached from a trunk. Then hurling Ratcliff into the middle of the room, he collared him before he could rise, and brought down the blows, sharp, quick, vigorous, on face, back, shoulders, till a shriek of “murder” was wrung from the proud lips of the humbled adversary.
Suddenly, in the midst of these inflictions, Vance felt his arm arrested by a firm grasp. He disengaged himself with a start that was feline in its instant evasiveness, turned, and before him stood Peek, interposing between him and the prostrate Ratcliff.
“Stand aside, Peek,” said Vance; “I have hardly begun yet. You are the last man to intercede for this wretch.”
“Not one more blow, Mr. Vance.”
“Stand aside, I say! Come not between me and my mortal foe. Have I not for long years looked forward to this hour? Have I not toiled for it, dreamed of it, hungered for it?”
“No, Mr. Vance, I’ll not think so poorly of you as to believe you’ve done any such thing. It was to right a great wrong that you have toiled,—not to wreak a poor revenge on flesh and blood.”
“No preaching, Peek! Stand out of the way! I’d sooner forego my hope of heaven than be balked now. Away!”
“Have I ever done that which entitles me to ask a favor of you, Mr. Vance?”