ter under the live-oak, in shadow and silence,
his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he since have seen
Borlasse, or any of the band. Why he is behind them, Clancy cannot
surmise; though he has a suspicion of the truth. Certainly Darke came
not there by any design, but only chance-conducted. Had it been
otherwise, he would not have gone off in such wild affright.

All this Clancy intuitively perceives, on the instant of his turning to
retreat. And partly to make this more sure, though also stirred by
indignation he cannot restrain, he eends forth that shout, causing the
scared wretch to flee faster and farther.

Now that he is gone, Clancy is again left to his reflections, but little
less gloomy than before. From only one does he derive satisfaction.
The robber chief must have lied. Helen Armstrong has not been in the
arms of Richard Darke.--He may hope she has reached her home in safety.

All else is as ever, and soon likely to be worse. For he feels as one
who has only had a respite, believing it will be but short. Darke will
soon recover from his scare. For he will now go to the rendezvous, and
there, getting an explanation of what has caused it, come back to glut
his delayed vengeance, more terrible from long accumulation.

Will the wolves wait for him?

"Ha! there they are again!"

So exclaims the wretched man, as he sees them once more making approach.

And now they draw nigh with increased audacity, their ravenous instincts
but strengthened by the check. The enemy late dreaded has not molested
them, but gone off, leaving their prey unprotected. They are again free
to assail, and this time will surely devour it.

Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of the night, as
they come loping up one after another. Soon all are re-assembled round
the strange thing, which through their fears has long defied them. More
familiar, they fear it less now.

Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, gliding from
side to side in _chassez-croissez_, as through the mazes of a cotillon.
With forms magnified under the moonlight, they look like werewolves
dancing around a "Death's Head,"--their long-drawn lugubrious wails
making appropriate music to the measure!

Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this not a ray
left now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and before him but the
darkness of death in all its dread certainty--a death horrible,
appall