ing on the ground--a letter enveloped in the ordinary way. He takes
it up, and sees it has been already opened. He thinks not of drawing
out the sheet folded inside. It would be no use; since the coon-hunter
cannot read. Still, an instinct tells him, the little bit of
treasure-trove may some time, and in some way, prove useful. So
forecasting, he slips it into his pocket.

This done he stands reflecting. No noise to disturb him now. Darke's
footsteps have died away in the distance, leaving swamp and cypress
forest restored to their habitual stillness. The only sound, Blue Bill
hears, is the beating of his own heart, yet loud enough.

No longer thinks he of the coon he has succeeded in treeing. The
animal, late devoted to certain death, will owe its escape to an
accident, and may now repose securely within its cave. Its pursuer has
other thoughts--emotions, strong enough to drive coon-hunting clean out
of his head. Among these are apprehensions about his own safety.
Though unseen by Richard Darke--his presence there unsuspected--he knows
that an unlucky chance has placed him in a position of danger. That a
sinister deed has been done he is sure.

Under the circumstances, how is he to act? Proceed to the place whence
the shots came, and ascertain what has actually occurred?

At first he thinks of doing this; but surrenders the intention.
Affrighted by what is already known to him, he dares not know more. His
young master may be a murderer? The way in which he was retreating
almost said as much. Is he, Blue Bill, to make himself acquainted with
the crime, and bear witness against him who has committed it? As a
slave, he knows his testimony will count for little in a court of
justice. And as the slave of Ephraim Darke, as little would his life be
worth after giving it.

The last reflection decides him; and, still carrying the coon-dog under
his arm, he parts from the spot, in timid skulking gait, never stopping,
not feeling safe, till he finds himself inside the limits of the "negro
quarter."

CHAPTER NINE.

AN ASSASSIN IN RETREAT.

Athwart the thick timber, going as one pursued--in a track straight as
the underwood will allow--breaking through it like a chased bear--now
stumbling over a fallen log, now caught in a trailing grape-vine--
Richard Darke flees from the place where he has laid his rival low.

He makes neither stop, nor stay. If so, only for a few instants, just
long enough to li