he rifle, which
the other man now observed for the first time, and with it pointed to
where, beyond the cypress-tree, the negro huddled, breathing
stertorously, beside the dead body of the dog.

CHAPTER V

Dun clouds of tragedy, crimson-streaked with sinister romance, shadow
the chronicles of the forty-mile square that makes the Dismal Swamp.
Thither, aforetime, even as to-day, men fled into the labyrinthine
recesses to escape the justice--or the injustice--of their fellows.
Runaway slaves sought asylum within its impenetrable and uncharted
mazes of thicket and quaking earth, of fetid pool and slithering
quicksands. Such fugitives came no more after the emancipation.
Instead of slaves, there were black men who had outraged the law, who
fled into the steaming, noxious waste in order to evade the penalty
for crime. For a time, these evil-doers were hunted through the
tortuous trails in the canebrakes with blood-hounds, even as their
predecessors had been. But the kennels of the man-hunting dogs were
ravaged by the black tongue, soon after the ending of the Civil War.
Poisoners, too, took toll of the too intelligent brutes. The strain
rapidly grew less--became extinct. Whereat, the criminals of Dismal
Swamp rejoiced in unholy glee. Their numbers waxed. Soon, they came to
be a serious menace to the peace and safety of the communities that
bordered on the infested region.

One sufferer from these conditions so resented the depredations of
marauders that he bought in England two splendid stag-hounds, keen of
scent, intelligent, faithful to their task, strong enough to throttle
their quarry, be it deer or man. By the aid of these creatures, many
criminals were captured. Their owner, by the intrepidity of his
pursuit, was given a nickname, "Cyclone" Brant. The speed and force
and resistlessness of him justified the designation. Together with his
dogs, Jack and Bruno, he won local fame for daring and successful
exploits against the lurking swamp devils. It was this man who now,
canvas-clad, with rifle in hand, looked in the direction indicated by
Zeke. He was dripping wet, plastered with slime of the bogs. For a few
seconds, he stood staring in silence. Then a little, gasping cry broke
from his lips. He strode forward, and fell to his knees beside the
body of the dog. He lifted the face of the hound gently in his two
hands, and looked down at it for a long time.

There was a film of tears in Brant's eyes when, at la