fe, capable of
being called back.

With this hope, however faint, he commences searching among the corpses.

The spectacle, that has sickened, makes his step feeble. He staggers as
he passes among the prostrate forms, at times compelled to stride over
them.

He examines one after another, bending low down to each--lower where
they lie in shadow, and it is more difficult to distinguish their
features.

Going the round of the courtyard, he completes the scrutiny of all.
Living or dead, Hawkins is not among them.

Nor is there the body of any white man, or woman. The stricken victims
are of every age, and both sexes. But all, male as female, are negroes
or mulattoes--the slaves of the establishment. Many of them he
recognises; knows them to be the house-servants.

Where are their masters? Where everybody? What terrible tragedy has
occurred to leave such traces behind? The traces of murder--of
wholesale slaughter!

Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?

To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick
succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes
him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed
a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint,
as if far off, away at the back of the building.

Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the
voice of Hawkins.

He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in
accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his
aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this,
Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on
along the saguan, and through the open wicket.

Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct
him, which it does.

As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who
calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the
building.

Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking
through the bushes like a chased bear.

Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts
appear to proceed.

Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the
bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.

"Is't you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!"

"Sartin it's me," Hawkins. "What does it all