If, in the first night after his nefarious deed, fears and jealous fancies chase one another through the a.s.sa.s.sin's soul, on the second it is different. Jealousy has no longer a share in his thoughts, fear having full possession of them. And no trifling fear of some far off danger, depending on chances and contingencies, but one real and near, seeming almost certain. The day's doings have gone all against him.

The behaviour of Clancy's hound has not only directed suspicion towards him, but given evidence, almost conclusive, of his guilt; as though the barking of the dumb brute were words of truthful testimony, spoken in a witness-box!

The affair cannot, will not, be allowed to rest thus. The suspicions of the searchers will take a more definite shape, ending in accusation, if not in the actual deed of his arrest. He feels convinced of this.

Therefore, on this second night, it is no common apprehension which keeps him awake, but one of the intensest kind, akin to stark terror.

For, added to the fear of his fellow man, there is something besides--a fear of G.o.d; or, rather of the Devil. His soul is now disturbed by a dread of the supernatural. He saw Charles Clancy stretched dead, under the cypress--was sure of it, before parting from the spot. Returning to it, what beheld he?

To him, more than any other, is the missing body a mystery. It has been perplexing, troubling him, throughout all the afternoon, even when his blood was up, and nerves strung with excitement. Now, at night, in the dark, silent hours, as he dwells ponderingly upon it, it more than perplexes, more than troubles--it awes, horrifies him.

In vain he tries to compose himself, by shaping conjectures based on natural causes. Even these could not much benefit him; for, whether Clancy be dead or still living--whether he has walked away from the ground, or been carried from it a corpse--to him, Darke, the danger will be almost equal. Not quite. Better, of course, if Clancy be dead, for then there will be but circ.u.mstantial evidence against, and, surely, not sufficient to convict him?

Little suspects he, that in the same hour, while he is thus distractedly cogitating, men are weighing evidence he knows not of; or that, in another hour, they will be on the march to make him their prisoner.

For all his ignorance of it, he has a presentiment of danger, sprung from the consciousness of his crime. This, and no sentiment of remorse, or repentance, wrings from him the self-interrogation, several times repeated:--

"Why the devil did I do it?"

He regrets the deed, not because grieving at its guilt, but the position it has placed him in--one of dread danger, with no advantage derived, nothing to compensate him for the crime. No wonder at his asking, in the name of the Devil, why he has done it!

He is being punished for it now; if not through remorse of conscience, by coward craven fear. He feels what other criminals have felt before-- what, be it hoped, they will ever feel--how hard it is to sleep the sleep of the a.s.sa.s.sin, or lie awake on a murderer's bed.

On the last Richard Darke lies; since this night he sleeps not at all.

From the hour of retiring to his chamber, till morning's dawn comes creeping through the window, he has never closed eye; or, if so, not in the sweet oblivion of slumber.

He is still turning upon his couch, chafing in fretful apprehension, when daylight breaks into his bedroom, and shows its shine upon the floor. It is the soft blue light of a southern morn, which usually enters accompanied by bird music--the songs of the wild forest warblers mingling with domestic voices not so melodious. Among these the harsh "screek" of the guinea-fowl; the more sonorous call of the turkey "gobbler;" the scream of the goose, always as in agony; the merrier cackle of the laying hen, with the still more cheerful note of her lord--Chanticleer.

All these sounds hears d.i.c.k Darke, the agreeable as the disagreeable.

Both are alike to him on this morning, the second after the murder.

Far more unpleasant than the last are some other sounds which salute his ear, as he lies listening. Noises which, breaking out abruptly, at once put an end to the singing of the forest birds, and the calling of the farm-yard fowls.

They are of two kinds; one, the clattering of horses' hoofs, the other, the clack and clangour of men's voices. Evidently there are several, speaking at the same time, and all in like tone--this of anger, of vengeance!

At first they seem at some distance off, but evidently drawing nigh.

Soon they are close up to the dwelling, their voices loudly reverberating from its walls.

The a.s.sa.s.sin cannot any longer keep to his couch. Too well knows he what the noise is, his guilty heart guessing it.

Springing to his feet, he glides across the room, and approaches the window--cautiously, because in fear.

His limbs tremble, as he draws the curtain and looks out. Then almost refusing to support him: for, in the courtyard he sees a half-score of armed hors.e.m.e.n, and hears them angrily discoursing. One at their head he knows to be the Sheriff of the county; beside him his Deputy, and behind a brace of constables. In rear of these, two men he has reason to believe will be his most resolute accusers.

He has no time to discriminate; for, soon as entering the enclosure, the hors.e.m.e.n dismount, and make towards the door of the dwelling.

In less than sixty seconds after, they knock against that of his sleeping chamber, demanding admission.

No use denying them, as its occupant is well aware--not even to ask--

"Who's there?"

Instead, he says, in accent tremulous--

"Come in."

Instantly after, he sees the door thrown open, and a form filling up its outlines--the stalwart figure of a Mississippi sheriff; who, as he stands upon the threshold, says, in firm voice, with tone of legal authority:

"Richard Darke, I arrest you!"

"For what?" mechanically demands the culprit, shivering in his shirt.

"_For the murder of Charles Clancy_!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE c.o.o.n-HUNTER CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN.

On the night preceding Richard Darke's arrest, another man, not many rods distant, lies awake, or, at least, loses more than half his customary measure of sleep.

This is the c.o.o.n-hunter. In his case the disturbing cause _is_ conscience; though his crime is comparatively a light one, and should scarce rob him of his rest. It would not, were he a hardened sinner; but Blue Bill is the very reverse; and though, at times, cruel to "c.o.o.ny," he is, in the main, merciful, his breast overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

On the night succeeding his spoilt c.o.o.n-chase, he has slept sound enough, his mind being unburdened by the confession to Phoebe. Besides, he had then no certain knowledge that a murder had been committed, or of any one being even killed. He only knew there were shots, and angry words, resembling a fight between two men; one his young master; the other, as he supposed, Charles Clancy. True, the former, rushing past in such headlong pace, seemed to prove that the affair had a tragical termination.

But of this, he, Blue Bill, could only have conjecture; and, hoping the _denouement_ might not be so bad as at first deemed, neither was he so alarmed as to let it interfere with his night's slumbers.

In the morning, when, as usual, hoe in hand, he goes abroad to his day's work, no one would suspect him of being the depository of a secret so momentous. He was always noted as the gayest of the working gang--his laugh, the loudest, longest, and merriest, carried across the plantation fields; and on this particular day, it rings with its wonted cheerfulness.

Only during the earlier hours. When, at mid-day, a report reaches the place where the slaves are at work, that a man has been murdered--this, Charles Clancy--the c.o.o.n-hunter, in common with the rest of the gang, throws down his hoe; all uniting in a cry of sympathetic sorrow. For all of them know young "Ma.s.sr Clancy;" respecting, many of them loving him. He has been accustomed to meet them with pleasant looks, and accost them in kindly words.

The tidings produce a painful impression upon them; and from that moment, though their task has to be continued, there is no more cheerfulness in the cotton field. Even their conversation is hushed, or carried on in a subdued tone; the hoes being alone heard, as their steel blades clink against an occasional "donick."

But while his fellow-labourers are silent through sorrow, Blue Bill is speechless from another and different cause. They only hear that young Ma.s.sr Clancy has been killed--murdered, as the report says--while he knows how, when, where, and _by whom_. The knowledge gives him double uneasiness; for while sorrowing as much, perhaps more than any, for Charles Clancy's death, he has fears for his own life, with good reasons for having them.

If by any sinister chance Ma.s.sr d.i.c.k should get acquainted with the fact of his having been witness to that rapid retreat among the trees, he, Blue Bill, would be speedily put where his tongue could never give testimony.

In full consciousness of his danger, he determines not to commit himself by any voluntary avowal of what he has seen and heard; but to bury the secret in his own breast, as also insist on its being so interred within the bosom of his better half.

This day, Phoebe is not in the field along with the working gang; which causes him some anxiety. The c.o.o.n-hunter can trust his wife's affections, but is not so confident as to her prudence. She may say something in the "quarter" to compromise him. A word--the slightest hint of what has happened--may lead to his being questioned, and confessed; with torture, if the truth be suspected.

No wonder that during the rest of the day Blue Bill wears an air of abstraction, and hoes the tobacco plants with a careless hand, often chopping off the leaves. Fortunately for him, his fellow-workers are not in a mood to observe these vagaries, or make inquiry as to the cause.

He is rejoiced, when the boom of the evening bell summons them back to the "big house."

Once more in the midst of his piccaninnies, with Phoebe by his side, he imparts to her a renewed caution, to "keep dark on dat ere seerous subjeck."

At supper, the two talk over the events of the day--Phoebe being the narrator. She tells him of all that has happened--of the search, and such incidents connected with it as have reached the plantation of the Darkes; how both the old and young master took part in it, since having returned home. She adds, of her own observation, that Ma.s.sr d.i.c.k looked "berry scared-like, an' white in de cheeks as a ole she-possum."