he two have pulled up--
along a line parallel to the trend of the cliff, at some distance from
its edge. Neighing, snorting, with tossed manes, and streaming tails,
they tear past, and are soon wide away on the other side.

Clancy keeping horse and hound in check, waits till they are out of
sight. Then sets Brasfort back upon the scent, from which he so
unceremoniously jerked him.

Though without dent of hoof on the dry parched grass, the hound easily
retakes it, straining on as before.

But he is soon at fault, losing it. They have come upon the tracks of
the mustangs, these having spoiled the scent--killed it.

Clancy, halting, sits dissatisfied in the saddle; Jupiter sharing his
dissatisfaction.

What are they to do now? The mulatto suggests crossing the ground
trodden by the mustangs, and trying on the other side.

To this Clancy consents. It is the only course that seems rational.

Again moving forward, they pass over the beaten turf; and, letting
Brasfort alone, look to him. The hound strikes ahead, quartering.

Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on the
scent.

Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes direct
for the copse of timber, which is now only a very short distance off.

Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up his horse.

Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their eyes upon the
copse--the grove of black-jack oaks--scanning it with glances of
inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near its
centre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry for
Brasfort's trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leaping
from his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoning
him, to whom he owes so much misery.

Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deep
sleep--the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication.

But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he is
unconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinising
it, he thinks not of looking behind.

By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within the
grove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects--is,
indeed, almost certain--his enemy is that something. Muttering to the
mulatto, who has come close alongside, he says:--

"I shouldn't wonder, Jupe, if we've reached our journey's end. Look at
Brasfort! See how he s