e slot. The stag has not
seen him; and, apparently, going unscared, he hopes to stalk, and again
get sight of it.

He has not proceeded over twenty paces, when a sound fills his ears, as
well as the woods around. It is the report of a gun, fired by one who
cannot be far off. And not at the retreating stag, but himself!

He feels that the bullet has hit him. This, from a stinging sensation
in his arm, like the touch of red-hot iron, or a drop of scalding water.
He might not know it to be a bullet, but for the crack heard
simultaneously--this coming from behind.

The wound, fortunately but a slight one, does not disable him; and, like
a tiger stung by javelins, he is round in an instant, ready to return
the fire.

There is no one in sight!

As there has been no warning--not a word--he can have no doubt of the
intent: some one meaning to murder him!

He is sure about its being an attempt to assassinate him, as of the man
who has made it. Richard Darke--certain, as if the crack of the gun had
been a voice pronouncing the name.

Clancy's eyes, flashing angrily, interrogate the forest. The trees
stand close, the spaces between shadowy and sombre. For, as said, they
are cypresses, and the hour twilight.

He can see nothing save the huge trunks, and their lower limbs,
garlanded with ghostly _tillandsia_ here and there draping down to the
earth. This baffles him, both by its colour and form. The grey
gauze-like festoonery, having a resemblance to ascending smoke, hinders
him from perceiving that of the discharged gun.

He can see none. It must have whiffed up suddenly, and become
commingled with the moss?

It does not matter much. Neither the twilight obscurity, nor that
caused by the overshadowing trees, can prevent his canine companion from
discovering the whereabouts of the would-be assassin. On hearing the
shot the hound has harked back; and, at some twenty paces off, brought
up beside a huge trunk, where it stands fiercely baying, as if at a
bear. The tree is buttressed, with "knees" several feet in height
rising around. In the dim light, these might easily be mistaken for
men.

Clancy is soon among them; and sees crouching between two pilasters, the
man who meant to murder him--Richard Darke as conjectured.

Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for none. His
rifle is already cocked; and, soon as seeing his adversary, he raises it
to his shoulder, exclaiming:--

"Scoundrel! y