“I see it all,” he cried.  “Fool, ass, bat, mole!  Curse me!  Yes, curse me!  But curse them also!  Oh!  G-G-God, help me to avenge this wrong!”

As soon as a God is necessary to the atheist he invents one, and in a single instant this hopeless skeptic had become a firm believer in the Deity.  It seemed for a few moments as if his passions would destroy him by their internal violence; but their first ebullition was soon expended and he began to grow calm.  The electric fires of his anger were no longer permitted to play at random, but were gathered up into a thunderbolt to be hurled at his foe; this half-crazed man suddenly became as cool and calculating as he was desperate and determined.

A purpose shaped itself instantly in his mind, and he began its execution without delay.  He made no confidant, took no advice; but having smoothed his ruffled clothing and combed his disheveled hair so as to excite no comment and provoke no question, he passed through the hotel corridor and office, greeting his acquaintances with his accustomed ease, and made his way to the livery stable.  He went at once to the stalls where his famous team was accustomed to stand, and to his astonishment and delight found his horses both there.

“Tom,” he said to the hostler, “did you hire a horse and b-b-buggy to a young couple last night?”

“I did not,” answered the surly groom.

“Tell me the truth,” said the doctor in a voice that made every word sound like the crack of a rifle.

“What do you take me for?” asked the stableman, trying to appear indignant and innocent.

“You’re a l-l-liar, and I am in no mood for trifling.  Out with it, you scoundrel!” he cried, seizing him by the throat.

With a sign of terror the groom indicated his readiness to come to terms, and the doctor relaxed his grip.

Still trembling, he told the truth.

“Do you know which road they took?”

He waved his hand toward Kentucky.

“Put a saddle on Hamlet—­no, on Romeo,” he ordered, tersely.

The groom entered a box stall and led out the black beauty.  The doctor glanced him over and smiled.  And well he might, for every muscle, every motion betokened speed, intelligence, endurance.

The pursuer made a single stop on his way to the river and that was at a gun store, from which he emerged carrying a pair of saddle bags on his arm.  In the holsters were two loaded pistols.

He smiled as he mounted, having already consummated vengeance in his heart.  Once across the river and safe upon the Louisville pike, he loosened the reins.  The horse, whose sympathetic heart had already been imbued with the spirit of his rider, shook his long black mane, plunged forward and pounded along the hard turnpike.  His hoof-beats—­sharp, sonorous, rhythmical—­seemed to be crying for vengeance; for hoof-beats have a language, and always utter the thoughts of a rider.