's been made by a bullet: an' he'd be still
greener in the horn as kedn't obsarve a tinge o' red roun' thet hole,
the which air nothin' more nor less than blood. Now, boys! the bullet's
yit inside the wud, for me an' Heywood here tuk care not to extract it
till the proper time shed come."

"It's come now; let's hev it out!" exclaims Heywood; the others
endorsing the demand.

"Thet ye shall. Now, fellurs; take partikler notice o' what sort o'
_egg_ hez been hatchin' in this nest o' cypress knee."

While speaking, Sime draws his large-bladed knife from its sheath; and,
resting the piece of wood on the porch bench, splits it open. When
cleft, it discloses a thing of rounded form and metallic lustre, dull
leaden--a gun-bullet, as all expected.

There is not any blood upon it, this having been brushed off in its
passage through the fibrous texture of the wood. But it still preserves
its spherical shape, perfect as when it issued from the barrel of the
gun that discharged, or the mould that made it.

Soon as seeing it they all cry out, "A bullet!" several adding, "The
ball of a smooth-bore."

Then one asks, suggestingly:

"Who is there in this neighbourhood that's got a shooting-iron of such
sort?"

The question is instantly answered by another, though not
satisfactorily.

"Plenty of smooth-bores about, though nobody as I knows of hunts with
them."

A third speaks more to the point, saying:--

"Yes; there's one does."

"Name him!" is the demand of many voices.

"_Dick Darke_!"

The statement is confirmed by several others, in succession repeating
it.

After this succeeds silence--a pause in the proceedings--a lull ominous,
not of further speech but, action.

Daring its continuance, Woodley replaces the piece of lead in the wood,
just as it was before; then laying the two cleft pieces together, and
tying them with a string, he returns the chunk to his pocket.

This done, he makes a sign to the chiefs of the conclave to follow him
as if for further communication.

Which they do, drawing off out of the porch, and taking stand upon grass
plot below at some paces distant from the dwelling.

With heads close together, they converse for a while, _sotto voce_.

Not so low, but that a title, the terror of all malefactors, can be
heard repeatedly pronounced.

And also a name; the same, which, throughout all the evening has been
upon their lips, bandied about, spoken of with gritting teeth and brows
con