nction--indeed an adept--Blue Bill knows
from whose gun the shot has been discharged. It is the double-barrel
belonging to Richard Darke. All the more reason for him to hug close to
his concealment.

And not the less to be careful about the behaviour of his own dog, which
he is holding in hard embrace. For hearing the bound, the cur is
disposed to give response; would do so but for the muscular fingers of
its master closed chokingly around its throat, at intervals detached to
give it a cautionary cuff.

After the shot the stag-hound continues its lugubrious cries; but again
with altered intonation, and less distinctly heard; as though the animal
had gone farther off, and were still making away.

But now a new noise strikes upon the coon-hunter's ears; one at first
slight, but rapidly growing louder. It is the tread of footsteps,
accompanied by a swishing among the palmettoes, that form an underwood
along the edge of the swamp. Some one is passing through them,
advancing towards the tree where he is concealed.

More than ever does he tremble on his perch; tighter than ever clutching
the throat of his canine companion. For he is sure, that the man whose
footsteps speak approach, is his master, or rather his master's son.
The sounds seem to indicate great haste--a retreat rapid, headlong,
confused. On which the peccant slave bases a hope of escaping
observation, and too probable chastisement. Correct in his conjecture,
as in the prognostication, in a few seconds after he sees Richard Darke
coming between the trees; running as for very life--the more like it
that he goes crouchingly; at intervals stopping to look back and listen,
with chin almost touching his shoulder!

When opposite the sycamore--indeed under it--he makes pause longer than
usual. The perspiration stands in beads upon his forehead, pours down
his cheeks, over his eyebrows, almost blinding him. He whips a kerchief
out of his coat pocket, and wipes it off. While so occupied, he does
not perceive that he has let something drop--something white that came
out along with the kerchief. Replacing the piece of cambric he hurries
on again, leaving it behind; on, on, till the dull thud of his footfall,
and the crisp rustling of the stiff fan-like leaves, become both blended
with the ordinary noises of the forest.

Then, but not before, does Blue Bill think of forsaking the fork.
Descending from his irksome seat, he approaches the white thing left
ly