"What sort of man was it that attacked you?" said Troubridge.
The Doctor described Moody.
"That's his hut-keeper that he took from here with him; a man he said he knew, and you say he was on horseback. What sort of a horse had he?"
"A good-looking roan, with a new bridle on him."
"Lee's horse," said Troubridge; "he must have murdered him for it. Poor William!"
But when Tom saw the pistol and read the name on it, he said,—
"Things are coming to a crisis, Doctor; the net seems closing round my unfortunate partner. God grant the storm may come and clear the air! Anything is better than these continual alarms."
"It will be very terrible when it does come, my dear friend," said the Doctor.
"It cannot be much more terrible than this," said Tom, "when our servants are assassinated in their beds, and travellers in lonely huts have to wrestle for their lives. Doctor, did you ever nourish a passion for revenge?"
"Yes, once," said the Doctor, "and had it gratified in fair and open duel; but when I saw him lying white on the grass before me, and thought that he was dead, I was like one demented, and prayed that my life might be taken instead of his. Be sure, Tom, that revenge is of the devil, and, like everything else you get from him, is not worth having."