ere the hound has couched itself. At his
approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet
him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it
suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.

After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of
the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face
turned towards him--the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth
clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.

And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes
it to be dead.

He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

IS IT A CORPSE?

"Surely Charl Clancy!" exclaims the mulatto as soon as setting eyes on
the face. "Dead--shot--murdered!"

For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staring
wildly.

Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, he
mutteringly interrogates: "Is he sure gone dead?"

To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared away
the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it.

He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. He
places his hand over the heart with a hope it may still be beating.

Surely it is! Or is he mistaken?

The pulse should be a better test; and he proceeds to feel it, taking
the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers.

"It beats! I do believe it does!" are his words, spoken hopefully.

For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make more sure, he
tries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as if
holding in his hand the life of an infant.

He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath in
the body.

What next? What is he to do?

Hasten to the settlement, and summon a doctor?

He dares not do this; nor seek assistance of any kind. To show himself
to a white man would be to go back into hated bondage--to the slavery
from which he has so lately, and at risk of life, escaped. It would be
an act of grand generosity--a self-sacrifice--more than man, more than
human being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be expected to
make it?

Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from his muttered
words:

"Breath in his body, or no breath, it won't do to leave it lyin' here.
Poor young gen'leman! The best of them all about these parts. What
would Miss Helen say if she