ain Brand
was his grandfather, the good gentleman--calling Sir John "Jack"
Malyoe--goes on to tell our hero what a famous pirate he had been, and
how it was he who had shot Captain Brand over t'other side of the
harbor twenty years before. "Yes," says he, "'tis the same Jack Malyoe,
though grown into repute and importance now, as who would not who hath
had the good-fortune to fall heir to a baronetcy and a landed estate?"

And so it befell that same night that Barnaby True once again beheld
the man who had murdered his own grandfather, meeting him this time
face to face.

That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and
in the darkness; now that he beheld him closer, it seemed to him that
he had never seen a countenance more distasteful to him in all his
life. Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good enough
nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out from his face and
were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they
were always a-smarting. His lips were thick and purple-red, and his
cheeks mottled here and there with little clots of veins.

When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat to such a degree that it
made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. So, what with
a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen
face, and his thick lips a-sticking out, it appeared to Barnaby True he
had never beheld a countenance that pleased him so little.

But if Sir John Malyoe suited our hero's taste so ill, the
granddaughter was in the same degree pleasing to him. She had a thin,
fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair--though it was then powdered
pretty white for the occasion--and the bluest eyes that ever he beheld
in all of his life. A sweet, timid creature, who appeared not to dare
so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to that great
beast, her grandfather, for leave to do so, for she would shrink and
shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a glance
upon her. When she did pluck up sufficient courage to say anything, it
was in so low a voice that Barnaby was obliged to bend his head to hear
her; and when she smiled she would as like as not catch herself short
and look up as though to see if she did amiss to be cheerful.

As for Sir John, he sat at dinner and gobbled and ate and drank,
smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word of civility
either to Mr. Greenfield or to Mrs. Greenf