was perfect--cruelly complete. There was no hope that such
fastenings would give way. Those thongs of raw-hide would not come
undone. Horse and rider could never part from that unwilling embrace--
never, till hunger, thirst, death--no, not even death could part them!
Oh, horror!

Not without groans could I contemplate the hideous fate of my
betrothed--of her whose love had become my life.

I left the tracking to my comrades, and my horse to follow after. I
rode with loose rein, and head drooping forward; I scarcely gave thought
to design. My heart was well-nigh broken.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

THE VOYAGEUR.

We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a
word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.

"Don't be afeerd, capt'n," said he, in a tone of encouragement; "don't
be afeerd! Rube an me'll find 'em afore thar's any harm done. I don't
b'lieve the white hoss 'll gallip fur, knowin' thar's someb'dy on his
back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out,
he'll come to a dead halt, an then--"

"And then?" I inquired mechanically.

"We'll get up, an your black'll be able to overhaul him in a jump or
two."

I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the
next instant.

"If the moon 'ud only hold out," continued Garey, with an emphasis
denoting doubt.

"Rot the moon!" said a voice interrupting him; "she's a gwine to guv
out. Wagh!"

It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a
peevish, but positive tone.

All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing
through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she
to "give out?" She was near the full, and could not set before morning.
What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.

"Look ee 'ander!" said he in reply. "D'ees see thet ur black line, down
low on the paraira?"

There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we
saw it.

"Wal," continued Rube, "thur's no timber thur--ne'er a stick--nor high
groun neyther: thurfor thet ur'ss a cloud; I've seed the likes afore.
Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing'll kiver up
the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o' an
Afrikin niggur--_it_ will."

"I'm afeerd he's right, capt'n," said Garey, in a desponding tone. "I
war doubtful o' it myself: the sky looked too _near_. I didn't like it