r minute--now rushes
into my remembrance, as if it were a thing of yesterday.

I remember that once or twice, away under the trees, we perceived a
ripple along the surface of the water. Our hearts were full of hope--we
thought it was the canoe.

It was a fleeting joy. The waves were made by the great saurian, whose
hideous body--large almost as the pirogue itself--next moment passed
before our eyes, cleaving the water with fish-like velocity.

I remember entertaining the supposition that the runaway _might not be
in his lair_! He might be off in the forest--in search of food--or on
any other errand. Then the reflection followed--if such were the case,
I should have found the pirogue by the tree? Still he might have other
landing-places around the lake--on the other side perhaps. He had not
told me whether or no, and it was probable enough. These hypothetic
conjectures increased my anxiety.

But there arose another, far more dreadful, because far more probable--

_The black might be asleep_!

Far more probable, because night was his day, and day his night. At
night he was abroad, roaming and busy--by day he was at home and slept.

Oh, Heavens! if he should be asleep, and not have heard the signal!

Such was the terrible fancy that rushed across my brain.

I felt suddenly impelled to repeat the signal--though I thought at the
time, if my conjecture were correct, there was but little hope he would
hear me. A negro sleeps like a torpid bear. The report of a gun or a
railway-whistle alone could awake one. There was no chance for a puny
pipe like mine--the more especially as the screaming concert still
continued.

"Even if he should hear it, he would hardly be able to distinguish the
whistle from--Merciful heavens!"

I was speaking to my companion when this exclamation interrupted me. It
came from my own lips, but with involuntary utterance. It was called
forth by a sound of dread import--a sound that I could hear above the
shrill screaming of the birds, and hearing could interpret. It was the
trumpet-like baying of a hound!

I stood bent, and listening; I heard it again. There was no mistaking
that note. I had the ears of a hunter. I knew the music well.

Oh, how unlike to music then! It fell upon my ears like a cry of
vengeance--like a knell of death!

I thought no longer of repeating the signal; even if heard, it would be
too late. I flung the reed away, as a useless toy. I drew Aurore a