’I am sorry that I can’t give you this part of the story, which of course I have mainly from Brown, in Brown’s own words.  There was in the broken, violent speech of that man, unveiling before me his thoughts with the very hand of Death upon his throat, an undisguised ruthlessness of purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a blind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind, something of that feeling which could induce the leader of a horde of wandering cut-throats to call himself proudly the Scourge of God.  No doubt the natural senseless ferocity which is the basis of such a character was exasperated by failure, ill-luck, and the recent privations, as well as by the desperate position in which he found himself; but what was most remarkable of all was this, that while he planned treacherous alliances, had already settled in his own mind the fate of the white man, and intrigued in an overbearing, offhand manner with Kassim, one could perceive that what he had really desired, almost in spite of himself, was to play havoc with that jungle town which had defied him, to see it strewn over with corpses and enveloped in flames.  Listening to his pitiless, panting voice, I could imagine how he must have looked at it from the hillock, peopling it with images of murder and rapine.  The part nearest to the creek wore an abandoned aspect, though as a matter of fact every house concealed a few armed men on the alert.  Suddenly beyond the stretch of waste ground, interspersed with small patches of low dense bush, excavations, heaps of rubbish, with trodden paths between, a man, solitary and looking very small, strolled out into the deserted opening of the street between the shut-up, dark, lifeless buildings at the end.  Perhaps one of the inhabitants, who had fled to the other bank of the river, coming back for some object of domestic use.  Evidently he supposed himself quite safe at that distance from the hill on the other side of the creek.  A light stockade, set up hastily, was just round the turn of the street, full of his friends.  He moved leisurely.  Brown saw him, and instantly called to his side the Yankee deserter, who acted as a sort of second in command.  This lanky, loose-jointed fellow came forward, wooden-faced, trailing his rifle lazily.  When he understood what was wanted from him a homicidal and conceited smile uncovered his teeth, making two deep folds down his sallow, leathery cheeks.  He prided himself on being a dead shot.  He dropped on one knee, and taking aim from a steady rest through the unlopped branches of a felled tree, fired, and at once stood up to look.  The man, far away, turned his head to the report, made another step forward, seemed to hesitate, and abruptly got down on his hands and knees.  In the silence that fell upon the sharp crack of the rifle, the dead shot, keeping his eyes fixed upon the quarry, guessed that “this there coon’s health would never be a source of anxiety to his friends any more.”