“He must die.”
“That’s for me to say,” cried Brandon in a stern voice that forbade reply. In fact, the sailors seemed to feel that he had the best claim here, since he had not only captured Zangorri with his own hands, but had borne the chief share in the fight.
“Englishman,” said a voice. “I thank you.”
Brandon started.
It was Zangorri who had spoken; and in very fair English too.
“Do you speak English?” was all that he could say in his surprise.
“I ought to. I’ve seen enough of them,” growled the other.
“You scoundrel!” cried Brandon, “you have nothing to thank me for. You must die a worse death.”
“Ah,” sneered Zangorri. “Well. It’s about time. But my death will not pay for the hundreds of English lives that I have taken. I thank you though, for you will give me time yet to tell the Englishmen how I hate them.”
And the expression of hate that gleamed from the eyes of the Malay was appalling.