has no difficulty about the direction--no need for aught save
caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty--his
life--stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides
from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till assured he
can reach another without being seen.

He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more
prolonged period.

For he now sees the dog--as conjectured, Clancy's deer-hound. The
animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and
anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the
plaintive refrain.

For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives
which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may
address them. No man near--at least none in sight. No living thing,
save the hound itself.

Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs,
causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.

Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the
hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be
racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the
strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the
reader--with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole
actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not go
directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it
knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature,
while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more
turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.

This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the assassin--as he
supposed himself--having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made
away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master's body, the dog soon
discovered it--dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside
the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking
the cold face.

Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues
its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while
alarming him.

Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore
no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With
confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and
strides on to the spot wh