“But, are you sure that he is the man?  I should know his horse, and shall look to him, for he’s a fine creature, and I should like to secure him; which I think will be the case, if you are not dreaming as usual.”

“I am sure—­I do not mistake.”

“Well, I’m not; and I should like to hear what it is you know him by?”

A deeper and more malignant expression overspread the face of Rivers, as, with a voice in which his thought vainly struggled for mastery with a vexed spirit, he replied:—­

“What have I to know him by? you ask.  I know him by many things—­and when I told you I had my reason for talking with him as I did, I might have added that he was known to me, and fixed in my lasting memory, by wrongs and injuries before.  But there is enough in this for recollection,” pointing again to his cheek—­“this carries with it answer sufficient.  You may value a clear face slightly, having known none other than a blotted one since you have known your own, but I have a different feeling in this.  He has written himself here, and the damned writing is perpetually and legibly before my eyes.  He has put a brand, a Cain-like, accursed brand upon my face, the language of which can not be hidden from men; and yet you ask me if I know the executioner?  Can I forget him?  If you think so, Munro, you know little of Guy Rivers.”

The violence of his manner as he spoke well accorded with the spirit of what he said.  The landlord, with much coolness and precision, replied:—­

“I confess I do know but little of him, and have yet much to learn.  If you have so little temper in your speech, I have chosen you badly as a confederate in employments which require so much of that quality.  This gash, which, when healed, will be scarcely perceptible, you speak of with all the mortification of a young girl, to whom, indeed, such would be an awful injury.  How long is it, Guy, since you have become so particularly solicitous of beauty, so proud of your face and features?”

“You will spare your sarcasm for another season, Munro, if you would not have strife.  I am not now in the mood to listen to much, even from you, in the way of sneer or censure.  Perhaps, I am a child in this, but I can not be otherwise.  Besides, I discover in this youth the person of one to whom I owe much in the growth of this very hell-heart, which embitters everything about and within me.  Of this, at another time, you shall hear more.  Enough that I know this boy—­that it is more than probable he knows me, and may bring us into difficulty—­that I hate him, and will not rest satisfied until we are secure, and I have my revenge.”

“Well, well, be not impatient, nor angry.  Although I still doubt that the youth in the house is your late opponent, you may have suffered wrong at his hands, and you may be right in your conjecture.”