But although his right hand had been utterly disabled by the blow from Jackson's pistol, the fury of Desborough, fed as it was by the fumes of the liquor he had swallowed, was too great to render him heedful of aught but the gratification of his vengeance. Rolling rapidly over to the point where the knife had fallen he secured it in his left hand, and then, leaping nimbly to his feet, gathered himself into a spring upon his unarmed but watchful enemy. But before the bound could be taken, the active Aid-de-camp, covering Gerald with his body and presenting a cocked pistol, had again thwarted him in his intention.
"I say now, old cock, you'd much better be quiet I guess, for them sort of tantrums won't suit me. If this here Liftenant killed your son why he'll answer for it later, but I can't let you murder my prisoner in that flumgustious manner. I'm responsible for him to the United States Government, therefore just drop that knife clean and slick upon the floor, and let's have no more of this nonsense for the night."
But even the cocked pistol had not power to restrain the fierce—almost brutal—rage of the woodman, whose growing intoxication added fuel to the fire which the presence of his enemy had kindled in his heart. Heedless of the determined air and threatening posture of the Aid-de-camp, he made a bound forward, uttering a sound that resembled the roar of a wild beast rather than the cry of a human being, and struck over Jackson's shoulder at the chest of the officer. Gerald, whose watchful eye marked the danger, had however time to step back and avoid the blow. In the next moment the Aid-de-camp, overborne by the violence of the collision, fell heavily backwards upon the rude floor, and in the fall the pistol went off lodging the ball in the sinewy calf of Desborough's leg. Stung with acute animal pain, the whole rage of the latter was now diverted from Gerald to the aid-de-camp, on whom, assuming the wound to have been intentional, he threw himself with the fury of a tiger, grappling as he closed with him at his throat. But the sailor, in his turn, now came to the rescue of his companion, and the scene for some time, as the whole party struggled together upon the floor in the broad, red glare of the wood fire, was one of fearful and desperate character. At length, after an immense effort, and amid the most horrid imprecations of vengeance upon them, the officers succeeded in disarming and tying the hands of the settler behind his back, after which, dragging him to a distant corner of the hut, they secured him firmly to one of the open and mis-shapen logs which composed its frame. This done, Jackson divided the little that had been left of his "Wabash" with his charge, and then stretching himself at his length, with his feet to the fire and his saddle for a pillow, soon fell profoundly asleep.
Too much agitated by the scene which had just passed, Gerald, although following the example of his companion in stretching himself before the cheerful fire, was in no condition to enjoy repose. Indeed, whatever his inclination, the attempt would have been vain, for so dreadful were the denunciations of Desborough throughout the night, that sleep had no room to enter even into his thoughts. Deep and appalling were the curses and threats of vengeance which the enraged settler uttered upon all who bore the name of Grantham; and with these were mingled lamentations for his son, scarcely less revolting in their import than the curses themselves. Nor was the turbulence of the enraged man confined to mere excitement of language. His large and muscular form struggled in every direction to free himself from the cords that secured him to the logs, and finding these too firmly bound to admit of the accomplishment of his end, he kicked his brawny feet against the floor with all the fury and impatience of a spirit, quickened into a livelier sense of restraint by the stimulus of intoxication. At length, exhausted by the efforts he had made, his struggles and his imprecations became gradually less frequent and less vigorous, until finally towards dawn they ceased altogether, and his deep and heavy breathing announced that he slept.
Accustomed to rise with the dawn, the Aide-de-camp was not long after its appearance in shaking off the slumber in which he had so profoundly indulged. The first object that met his eye as he raised himself up in a sitting posture from his rude bed, was Gerald stooping over the sleeping Desborough, one hand resting upon his chest, the other holding the knife already alluded to, while every feature of his face was kindled into loathing and abhorrence of his prostrate and sleeping enemy. Startled by the expression he read there, and with the occurrences of the last night rushing forcibly upon his memory, the Aide-de-camp called quickly out:
"Hold, Liftenant Grantham. Well, as I'm a true Tennessee man, bred and born, may I be most especially d——d, if I'd a thought you'd do so foul a deed. What! assassinate a sleeping drunken man?"
"Assassinate, Captain Jackson?" repeated Gerald, raising himself to his full height, while a crimson flush of indignation succeeded to the deadly paleness which had overspread his cheek.
"Yes—assassinate!" returned the Aide-de-camp, fixing his eye upon that of his prisoner, yet without perceiving that it quailed under his penetrating glance; "It's an ugly word, I reckon, for you to hear, as it is for me to speak, but your quarrel last night—your fix just now—that knife—Liftenant Grantham," and he pointed to the blade which still remained in the hands of the accused—"surely these things speak for themselves; and though the fellow has swallowed off all my Wabash, and be d——d to him, still I shouldn't like to see him murdered in that sort of way."
"I cannot blame you, Captain Jackson," said Gerald calmly, his features resuming their pallid hue. "These appearances, I grant, might justify the suspicion, horrible as it is, in one who had known more of me than yourself but was assassination even a virtue, worlds would not tempt me to assassinate that man—wretch though he be—or even to slay him in fair and open combat."
"Then I calculate one night has made a pretty considerable change in your feelings, Liftenant," retorted the Aide-de-camp. "You were both ready enough to go at it last night, when I knocked the knife out of your fist, and broke the knuckles of his gouging hand."