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Updated: July 14, 2025
Out of all the Malays the only one alive was Zangorri himself, who now lay gasping with a mighty hand on his throat. At last, as his struggles grew feebler, Brandon relaxed his grasp. Some of the sailors came with uplifted knives to put an end to Zangorri. "Back," cried Brandon, fiercely. "Don't touch him. He's mine!" "He must die."
"Have you arms?" "Yes. I've got enough to give Zangorri a pleasanter reception than he usually gets from a merchant-ship; and my lads are the boys that can use them." "I wonder what has become of that other ship that passed me on the island," said Brandon, after a pause. "She can't be very far away from us," replied the Captain, "and we may come up with her before we get to the Cape."
The brow of Brandon grew as black as night, his nostrils quivered, his eyes seemed to blaze with a terrific lustre, and a slight foam spread itself over his quivering lips. But he commanded himself by a violent effort. He looked all around. The sailors were busy with the Captain, who still lay senseless. No one observed him. He turned to Zangorri.
"I could not have been his murderer, then?" "No." "Yet I know who his murderer was, for I have found out." "Who?" "The same man who killed my own father." Vijal looked at Brandon with awful eyes. "Your father had a brother?" said Brandon. "Yes." "Do you know his name?" "Yes. Zangorri." "Right. Well, do you know what Zangorri did to avenge his brother's death?" "No; what?"
"What?" cried Brandon. But the Captain did not hear. Instantly his whole demeanor was changed. He sprang to the companion-way. He spoke but one word, not in a loud voice, but in tones so stern, so startling, that every man in the ship heard the word: "Zangorri!" All knew what it meant.
The revolver covered him. In a moment a bullet could have plunged into his brain. But Brandon did not fire. He could not. It was too cold-blooded. True, Zangorri was stained with countless crimes; but all his crimes at that moment were forgotten: he did not appear as Zangorri the merciless pirate, but simply as a wounded wretch, trying to escape from death. That death Brandon could not deal him.
"Down with him," yelled the Captain. "It's Zangorri!" A venomous smile passed over the dark face of the Malay. Then he shouted to his men and in an instant they rushed to the quarter-deck and took up a position there. A few of them obtained some more muskets that lay about. The Captain shouted to his men, who were pursuing the Malays, to load once more.
The sweeps were out, and they were preparing to move away. But the escape of Zangorri had aroused them, and they were evidently waiting to see the result. That result lay altogether at the disposal of the man with the revolver, who stood at the stern from which Zangorri had leaped. And now Zangorri's head appeared above the waves, while he took a long breath ere he plunged again.
Another shot sent over one of the boatswain's assailants, and the other assailant was kicked up into the air and overboard by the boatswain himself. After this Brandon had no more trouble to get at Zangorri, for the Malay chief with a howl of fury called on his men, and sprang at him. Two quick flashes, two sharp reports, and down went two of them.
"Are the Malays any worse than usual now?" asked Brandon. "Well, no worse than they've been for the last ten years. Zangorri is the worst of them all." "Zangorri! I've heard of him." "I should think you had. Why, there never was a pirate in these seas that did so much damage. No mortal knows the ships that devil has captured and burned." "I hope you have arms for the seamen, at any rate."
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