“Dam him, debbel,” exclaimed Sambo, who as well as the officers, had approached the party detailing their exploit, and had fixed his dark eye on the dangling trophy.  “May I nebber see a hebben ib he not a calp of a younger Desborough.  I know him lying tief by he hair—­he all yaller like a sogers breast plate—­curse him rascal (and his white and even teeth, were exhibited in the grin that accompanied the remark,) he nebber no more say he sail round Massa Geral gun boat, and Massa Geral and Sambo sleep.”

“By Jove he is right,” said De Courcy.  “I recollect remarking the colour of the fellow’s hair yesterday when on calling for a glass of “gin sling,” at the inn to which I had conducted him, he threw his slouched hat unceremoniously on the table, and rubbed the fingers of both hands through his carrotty locks, until they actually appeared to stand like those of the Gorgon perfectly on end.”

“And were there other proof wanting,” said Villiers, “we have it here in the spoil his slayers are exhibiting to their companions.  There are the identical powder horn, bullet pouch, and waist belt, which he wore when he landed on this very spot.”

“And I,” said Middlemore, “will swear by the crooked buck horn handle of that huge knife, or dagger; for in our struggle on the sands yesterday morning, his blanket coat came open, and discovered the weapon on which I kept a sharp eye, during the whole time.  Had he but managed to plant that monster (and he affected to shudder,) under my middle ribs, then would it hare been ail over with poor Middlemore.”

“There cannot be a doubt,” remarked Henry Grantham.  “With Sambo and De Courcy, I well recollect the hair, and I also particularly noticed the handle of his dagger, which, as you perceive, has a remarkable twist in it.”

All doubt was put to rest by Sambo, who, having spoken with its possessor for a moment, now returned, bearing the knife, at the extremity of the handle of which, was engraved on a silver shield the letters P. E. T. A. Ens.  M. M.

“Paul, Emilius, Theophilus, Arnoldi, Ensign Michigan Militia,” pursued Grantham reading.  “This then is conclusive, and we have to congratulate ourselves that one at least of two of the vilest scoundrels this country ever harboured, has at length met the fate he merited.”

“Fate him merit, Massa Henry,” muttered the aged and privileged negro, with something like anger in his tones, as he returned the knife to the Indian; “he dam ’serter from a king!  No, no, he nebber deserb a die like dis.  He ought to hab a rope roun him neck and die him lying teef like a dog.”

“I guess however our friend Jeremiah has got clean slick off,” said Villiers, imitating the tone and language of that individual, “and he, I take it, is by far the more formidable of the two.  I expect that, before he dies, he will give one of us a long shot yet, in revenge for the fall of young hopeful.”