the Iliad."

"Hit looks ter me like a gineral coon-hunt," said Fortner, "on'y over
thar hit's the coons, an' not the hunters, that hev the torches. I wish
I could put a bum-shell inter every fire."

"You are merciless."

"No more'n they are. They've ez little marcy ez a pack o' wolves in a
sheep-pen."

"Well," continued Fortner, meditatively, "Ole Rockassel's gittin' a glut
to-night. She'd orten't ter need no more now fur a hundred yeahs."

"I don't understand you," said Harry.

"Why, they say thet the Rockassel hez ter hev a man every Spring an'
Fall. The Injuns believed hit, an' hit's bin so ever sence the white
folks come inter the country. Last Spring hit war the turn o' the
Fortner kin to gi'n her a man, an' she levied on a fust cousin o'
mine--a son o' Aunt Debby Brill. But less jog on; we've got a good piece
fur ter go."

It was now night--black and starless, and the dense woods through which
they were traveling made the darkness thick and impenetrable. But
no check in Fortner's speed hinted at any ignorance of the course or
encountering of obstacles. He continued to stride forward with the same
swift, certain step as in the day time. But for Harry, who could see
nothing but his leader's head and shoulders, and, whose every effort was
required to keep these in sight, the journey was full of painful toil.
The relaxation from the intense strain manifested itself in proportion
as they seemed to recede from the presence of the enemy, and his spirits
flagged continually.

In the daylight the brush and briers had been annoying and hurtful,
and the roughness of the way very trying. Now the one was wounding and
cruel; the other made every step with his jaded limbs a torture. With
the low spirits engendered by the great fatigue, came a return of the
old fears and tremors. The continual wails of the wildcats roundabout
filled him with gloomy forebodings. Every hair of his head stood stiffly
up in mortal terror when a huge catamount, screaming like a fiend,
leaped down from a tree, and confronted them for an instant with
hideously-gleaming yellow eyes.

"Cuss-an'-burn the nasty varmint!" said Fortner angrily, snatching up
a pine knot from his feet and flinging it at the beast, which vanished
into the darkness with another curdling scream.

"Don't that man know what fear is?" wondered Harry, ignorant that the
true mountaineer feels toward these vociferous felidae about the same
contempt with which a plainsman r