sh creak meanders among the trees, some two hundred yards from
the spot. At about a like distance below, it discharges itself into the
stagnant reservoir of the swamp.

Its waters are dark, from the overshadowing of the cypresses, and deep
enough for the purpose he is planning.

But to carry the body thither will require an effort of strength; and to
drag it would be sure to leave traces.

In view of this difficulty, he says to himself,--

"I'll let it lie where it is. No one ever comes along hero--not likely.
At the same time, I take it, there can be no harm in hiding him a
little. So, Charley Clancy, if I have sent you to kingdom come, I
shan't leave your bones unburied. Your ghost might haunt me, if I did.
To hinder that you shall have interment."

In the midst of this horrid mockery, he rests his gun against a tree,
and commences dragging the Spanish moss from the branches above. The
beard-like parasite comes off in flakes--in armfuls. Half a dozen he
flings over the still palpitating corpse; then pitches on top some
pieces of dead wood, to prevent any stray breeze from sweeping off the
hoary shroud.

After strewing other tufts around, to conceal the blood and boot tracks,
he rests from his labour, and for a time stands surveying what he has
done.

At length seeming satisfied, he again grasps hold of his gun; and is
about taking departure from the place, when a sound, striking his ear,
causes him to start. No wonder, since it seems the voice of one wailing
for the dead!

At first he is affrighted, fearfully so; but recovers himself on
learning the cause.

"Only the dog!" he mutters, perceiving Clancy's hound at a distance,
among the trees.

On its master being shot down, the animal had scampered off--perhaps
fearing a similar fate. It had not gone far, and is now returning--by
little and little, drawing nearer to the dangerous spot.

The creature seems struggling between two instincts--affection for its
fallen master, and fear for itself.

As Darke's gun is empty, he endeavours to entice the dog within reach of
his knife. Despite his coaxing, it will not come!

Hastily ramming a cartridge into the right-hand barrel, he aims, and
fires.

The shot takes effect; the ball passing through the fleshy part of the
dog's neck. Only to crease the skin, and draw forth a spurt of blood.

The hound hit, and further frightened, gives out a wild howl, and goes
off, without sign of return.

Equally w