mself
erect, and a belief he would feel better in a recumbent attitude, he
gropes his way back to the glade, where, staggering about for a while,
he at length settles down, dead drunk. In ten seconds he is asleep, in
slumber so profound, that a cannon shot--even the voice of Simeon
Woodley--would scarce awake him.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

"BRASFORT."

"Brasfort has caught scent!"

The speech comes from one of two men making their way through a wood,
the same across which Richard Darke has just retreated. But they are
not retreating as he; on the contrary pursuing, himself the object of
their pursuit. For they two men are Charles Clancy, and Jupiter.

They are mounted, Clancy on his horse--a splendid animal--the mulatto
astride the mule.

The hound is with them, not now trotting idly after, but in front, with
nose to the earth. They are on Darke's trail. The animal has just
struck, and is following it, though not fast. For a strap around its
neck, with a cord attached, and held in Clancy's hand, keeps it in
check, while another buckled about its jaws hinders it from giving
tongue. Both precautions show Clancy's determination to take pains with
the game he is pursuing, and not again give it a chance to get away.
Twice has his mother's murderer escaped him. It will not be so a third
time.

They are trailing in darkness, else he would not need assistance from
the dog. For it is only a short while since his separation from the
party that went on to the Mission. Soon as getting into their saddles,
Clancy and his faithful follower struck into the timber, at the point
where Darke was seen to enter, and they are now fairly on his tracks.
In the obscurity they cannot see them; but the behaviour of the hound
tells they are there.

"Yes; Brasfort's on it now," says Clancy, calling the animal by a name
long ago bestowed upon it.

"He's on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs upon the
string."

"All right, Masser Charle. Give him plenty head. Let him well out.
Guess we can keep up with him. An' the sooner we overtake the nigger
whipper, the better it be for us, an' the worser for him. Pity you let
him go. If you'd 'lowed Mass Woodley to shoot down his hoss--"

"Never mind about that. You'll see himself shot down ere long, or--"

"Or what, masser?"

"Me!"

"Lor forbid! If I ever see that, there's another goes down long side
you; either the slave-catcher or the slave."

"Thanks, my br