“Murray is right,” said Mr Braine; “too right, I fear. You must not, you shall not risk the journey to-morrow alone. I must speak plainly now. I would not answer for your life.”
“I will not go,” said Murray, firmly. “I am a quiet enthusiast, but there is some old Scottish blood in my veins, gentlemen, that can be roused, and I’ll fight to the death before I will see this wrong done.”
“As we all would,” said Mr Braine, warmly. “God bless you, Murray! You will be a tower of strength to us; but this is not a time for fighting. We are weak—the rajah is strong. He is cunning, too, with all the smiling deceit of these people, who throw you off your guard so as to get a better opportunity for striking.”
“But we must act and at once, Braine.”
“Yes, but it must be with quiet and dissimulation; cunning for cunning. Violence is useless.”
“I don’t know,” said Murray, fiercely. “The future of a lady whom I boldly tell her father I love and reverence so dearly that, though my suit may be hopeless, though she may never look upon me as aught but a friend, I will die in her service to save her from such a fate as threatens her. My life is, I know, menaced now. Well, I had better try to do some good before I go, if it is only to rid the world of this tyrannical scoundrel and—”
Murray stopped short, the doctor darted to a chest and snatched out a revolver, and Mr Braine seized a sword hanging upon a couple of hooks against the wall; for all at once a violent scuffling and panting arose from beneath their feet, telling that two men were contending, and all doubt as to who one of them might be, was set aside the next moment by a familiar voice.
“Ah-hah! would ye—ye thayving baste? Shure, would ye? Take that, and that, and that.”
It was plain, too, what the donations were from the sounds which followed them—dull heavy thuds of blows delivered by a sturdy fist.
The struggle was continued as all hurried out into the veranda, and down the steps to plunge below the house into the intense darkness, where all was now silent.