“Thank you,” said Tom, “but I heartily hope that you are mistaken—that you will leave this city in safety, and far away have a chance to redeem your past life.”
“I think you are sincere,” said the captain, taking his hand. “I trust you more than any other living being. For that reason, whatever comes to me, I wish that you may prosper.”
The day of sailing came. Tom and the captain went on board the steamer. As they stood by the railing and looked over the side, Tom said in a low voice:
“Where are your presentiments now? Nothing has happened.”
The captain shook his head.
“It is not too late yet,” he said.
He had scarcely finished the sentence than a report was heard. The captain pressed his hand convulsively to his breast and dropped upon the deck. He never uttered another word. When he was taken up he was dead.
Tom looked about him in horror, expecting to see the assassin. But there was no one who looked likely to commit the deed. No one thought of suspecting a decrepit and infirm old beggar, who tottered slowly away from the wharf with head bowed down.
“The traitor is punished! We are avenged!” he muttered. “Now I am the captain!”
But Alonzo’s triumph was premature. He had been seen in the act of firing the pistol. He was arrested, and identified as a member of the famous band that had been the scourge of the interior. He was tried, convicted and executed within the space of one month. So the captain was revenged, and the band, now without a head, was speedily disbanded.