CHAPTER X

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*I Make a Solemn Vow*

It may be that I am of a different make from other men--I know not; but in that awful moment, when heaven and earth alike were crashing round me, and my very life itself seemed rent asunder, I neither grieved nor wept. It was, indeed, as though a band of steel had forged itself about my heart and turned me into stone.

If it be hard to have no softened feelings at a time like that, then am I hard as granite; if it be wicked to be filled with vengeful thoughts in face of death, then am I wicked as the Evil One himself: for as I stood there with my father's icy hand in mine (the hand of him who had been everything to me), one thought, and only one, possessed my mind--the fierce resolve to be avenged on those who were his murderers, as truly as was Cain the murderer of Abel.

There was no mark of violence on him, save that his vest had been ripped open, and the key (that proof which was to win the price of blood!) torn from its ribbon. He had been dead some time--the brave, albeit weakened heart had given way at last beneath the strain of threatening danger, and Tubal Ammon, coming to give death, had found it there before him.

So much I noted, swiftly, clearly, as I stood there in that moonlit room of death; then, with the sense of having added years, in moments, to my life, I drew my sword, and holding it above the poor, bowed head, took one deliberate vow of vengeance.

Even as I did so, heavy hurrying footsteps sounded on the stairs, and glancing round, I saw a bunch of wondering, awestruck faces staring at me from the doorway. My crashing entrance had aroused the house, and here, half-dressed and ghost-like, were the servants.

The very sight of such a gaping, helpless throng stirred wild, unreasoning anger in a brain which hitherto had felt like lead. I must have turned upon them with a threatening fierceness, for they one and all fell backward with a fearful look.

"What now! What do you here?" I said.

"Oh, by the love o' Heaven, sir, what be wrong?" asked Tom, the groom, who held a flaring candle high above his head.

I paused a moment, then pointed to the chair, and answered:

"Your master sits there, dead!"

No cry or movement followed, but the glances cast upon me and my naked sword spoke plainly of the awful thought which filled each horror-stricken mind. Yes, for one throbbing instant it was clear to me that I was counted my father's slayer.

"Dead!" gasped Tom at last. "How, sir? Not--not killed?"

The hand which held the candle shook.

"No, not killed;" I answered slowly, for even in that blank, bewildering moment it flashed upon me that the truth could not be told to anyone without great danger. "No, not killed; he died as he had always wished to die--swiftly. Come now," I added, in a voice that sounded strange and far-off to my ears, "help me to bear him to his chamber."

No more was spoken.

The dawn of that the blackest day in all my life broke with a mocking splendour. The sun rose gloriously upon a green glad earth; the joyous song of birds, the scent of many flowers, the gentle whisper of the soft June breeze, the murmur of the sea--all these, the joyous signs of one more resurrection from the things of darkness, were there in plenty; but as I stood and looked down on my father's white, set face, I took no heed of them; they were less than nothing. The present was as a thing I had no part in; the past alone seemed real. A thousand memories of bygone years came flooding over me. It was as though I lived through all my life again, within that silent room of death.

Yet, notwithstanding this, my heart was still like stone; nor grief nor tears were mine. Instead, I vowed fresh vengeance. There should be no rest for me till both Ferguson and Tubal Ammon had been made to answer for their wickedness; until, that is, they had been hunted down and killed. The sword which had been girded on me by the hands now cold and stiff should also know no rest until it had avenged its giver's death. Henceforward that should be its work and mine.

So much I swore, and felt the better for it, yet not without some vision of the perils and the pitfalls which must certainly beset me ere my vow could be fulfilled.

And first among these stumbling-blocks there came the thought that none could help me. The truth about my father's death was one with which I could not trust a living soul; the threatening danger which had hovered over him, and killed him, now just as surely hovered over me; the secret which he had confided to my keeping scarce a day before was still a secret, though now known to three instead of four. Henceforth, in fact, 'twould be a deadly, silent warfare betwixt one and two, and well I knew that God's earth did not hold a blacker pair of villains than the chaplain and his creature Tubal Ammon. But that did not dismay me; nay, rather was I heartened by the thought that now, at least, I had a real work (however desperate) in life. For the rest of it, come rack, come rope, I would not flinch or turn aside. My course was clearly marked, and I was minded to run it with a will. My father's blood flowed in my veins, and though a cruel fate had snatched him from my side, he still was mine, and this that I was bent upon seemed but a poor plain duty due to one who had done everything for me. At any rate, 'twas all I could do now for him, and I would gladly give my life for its accomplishment.

It was such feelings and such fierce resolves as these which kept me up and made me adamant (I know it now--for afterwards, long afterwards, the crash came), and, looking back through many years, I see no reason to regret it; for it was this alone which made it possible for me to go about my many pressing duties firm-jawed, silent, and clear-headed. And this, I knew, was as my father would have had it, for he had ever little tolerance or sympathy for those who wailed and whimpered in the face of sorrow.

I will not dwell upon the many happenings of that dolorous day, for, indeed, they have no business in these pages, and so may be told swiftly in fewest words.

First, then, summoned hastily, came the family physician, an old grey-headed, owl-eyed man, who, as I always felt, knew far more about me than he ought to. He asked divers questions, got, I fear, short answers; then shook his head, and murmured:

"Ah! 'tis as I feared; 'tis as I always said; the heart hath failed."

He said this with a solemn sadness, but yet, as it seemed to me, with some small pride in that his prophecy had been fulfilled.

Next, eagerly (for ill news flies apace, and many messengers had been dispatched) came kith and kin, flocking like crows into the old ancestral tree, and, for the most part, trying hard (but vainly) to hide an eager curiosity by means of sighs and tears. In truth, their plaintive caws were little to my liking; and verily they must have thought me something of a hardened monster as I moved about among them, dry-eyed, immovable, and, as it seemed, bent only on cold business.

Thus the day passed swiftly, crowded as it was with thronging duties (for, in spite of everyone and everything, I had decided that my father should be buried on the morrow), and evening came before I found a chance of going out. But when the sun had set, I left the dismal cawing of the family crows, and, slipping forth, went down by unfrequented ways into the town. Moreover, I went fully armed, for who could tell what ugly violence or treachery might be abroad?

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