see him now? What will she say when she
hear o' it? I wonder who's done it? No, I don't--not a bit. There's
only one likely. From what Jule told me, I thought 't would come to
this, some day. Wish I could a been about to warn him. Well, it's too
late now. The Devil has got the upper hand, as seem always the way.
Ah! what 'll become o' Miss Armstrong? She loved him, sure as I love
Jule, or Jule me."

For a time he stands considering what he ought to do. The dread
spectacle has driven out of his mind all thoughts of his appointment
with Blue Bell; just as what preceded hindered the coon-hunter from
keeping it with him. For the latter, terrified, has taken departure
from the dangerous place, and is now hastening homeward.

Only for a short while does the mulatto remain hesitating. His eyes are
upon the form at his feet. He sees warm blood still oozing from the
wound, and knows, or hopes, Clancy is not dead. Something must be done
immediately.

"Dead or alive," he mutters. "I mustn't, shan't leave him here. The
wolves would soon make bare bones of him, and the carrion crows peck
that handsome face of his. They shan't either get at him. No. He's
did me a kindness more'n once, it's my turn now. Slave, mulatto,
nigger, as they call me, I'll show them that under a coloured skin there
can be gratitude, as much as under a white one--may be more. Show them!
What am I talkin' 'bout? There's nobody to see. Good thing for me
there isn't. But there might be, if I stand shilly-shallying here. I
mustn't a minute longer."

Bracing himself for an effort, he opens his arms, and stoops as to take
up the body. Just then the hound, for some time silent, again gives out
its mournful monotone--continuing the dirge the runaway had interrupted.

Suddenly he rises erect, and glances around, a new fear showing upon his
face. For he perceives a new danger in the presence of the dog.

"What's to be done with it?" he asks himself. "I daren't take it along.
'Twould be sure some day make a noise, and guide the nigger-hunters to
my nest--I mustn't risk that. To leave the dog here may be worse still.
It'll sure follow me toatin away its master, an' if it didn't take to
the water an' swim after 'twould know where the dug-out lay, an' might
show them the place. I shan't make any tracks; for all that they'd
suspect somethin', down the creek, an' come that way sarchin'. 'Twont
do take the dog--'twont do to leave it--what _