It chances to be near the spot where the dog is still giving tongue-- apparently not more than two hundred yards off.

Drawing the dug-out in between the roots of the sycamore, and there roping it fast, the mulatto mounts upon the bank. Then after standing some seconds to listen, he goes gliding off through the trees.

If cautious while making approach by water, he is even more so on the land; so long being away from it, he there feels less at home.

Guided by the yelps of the animal, that reach him in quick repet.i.tion, he has no difficulty about the direction--no need for aught save caution. The knowledge that he may be endangering his liberty--his life--stimulates him to observe this. Treading as if on eggs, he glides from trunk to trunk; for a time sheltering behind each, till a.s.sured he can reach another without being seen.

He at length arrives at one, in rear of which he remains for a more prolonged period.

For he now sees the dog--as conjectured, Clancy's deer-hound. The animal is standing, or rather crouching, beside a heap of moss, ever and anon raising its head and howling, till the forest is filled with the plaintive refrain.

For what is it lamenting? What can the creature mean? Interrogatives which the mulatto puts to himself; for there is none else to whom he may address them. No man near--at least none in sight. No living thing, save the hound itself.

Is there anything dead? Question of a different kind which now occurs, causing him to stick closer than ever to his cover behind the tree.

Still there is nought to give him a clue to the strange behaviour of the hound. Had he been there half-an-hour sooner, he need not now be racking his brain with conjectures. For he would have witnessed the strife, with all the incidents succeeding, and already known to the reader--with others not yet related, in which the hound was itself sole actor. For the animal, after being struck by Darke's bullet, did not go directly home. There could be no home where its master was not; and it knew he would not be there. In the heart of the faithful creature, while retreating, affection got the better of its fears; and once more turning, it trotted back to the scene of the tragedy.

This time not hindered from approaching the spot; the a.s.sa.s.sin--as he supposed himself--having wound up his cruel work, and hurriedly made away. Despite the shroud thrown over its master's body, the dog soon discovered it--dead, no doubt the animal believed, while tearing aside the moss with claws and teeth, and afterwards with warm tongue licking the cold face.

Believing it still, as crouched beside the seeming corpse it continues its plaintive lamentation, which yet perplexes the runaway, while alarming him.

Not for long does he listen to it. There is no one in sight, therefore no one to be feared. Certainly not Charles Clancy, nor his dog. With confidence thus restored, he forsakes his place of concealment, and strides on to the spot where the hound has couched itself. At his approach the animal starts up with an angry growl, and advances to meet him. Then, as if in the mulatto recognising a friend of its master, it suddenly changes tone, bounding towards and fawning upon him.

After answering its caresses, Jupe continues on till up to the side of the moss pile. Protruding from it he sees a human head, with face turned towards him--the lips apart, livid, and bloodless; the teeth clenched; the eyes fixed and filmy.

And beneath the half-scattered heap he knows there is a body; believes it to be dead.

He has no other thought, than that he is standing beside a corpse.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

IS IT A CORPSE?

"Surely Charl Clancy!" exclaims the mulatto as soon as setting eyes on the face. "Dead--shot--murdered!"

For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staring wildly.

Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, he mutteringly interrogates: "Is he sure gone dead?"

To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared away the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it.

He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. He places his hand over the heart with a hope it may still be beating.

Surely it is! Or is he mistaken?

The pulse should be a better test; and he proceeds to feel it, taking the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers.

"It beats! I do believe it does!" are his words, spoken hopefully.

For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make more sure, he tries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as if holding in his hand the life of an infant.

He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath in the body.

What next? What is he to do?

Hasten to the settlement, and summon a doctor?

He dares not do this; nor seek a.s.sistance of any kind. To show himself to a white man would be to go back into hated bondage--to the slavery from which he has so lately, and at risk of life, escaped. It would be an act of grand generosity--a self-sacrifice--more than man, more than human being is capable of. Could a poor runaway slave be expected to make it?

Some sacrifice he intends making, as may be gathered from his muttered words:

"Breath in his body, or no breath, it won't do to leave it lyin' here.

Poor young gen'leman! The best of them all about these parts. What would Miss Helen say if she 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 c.o.o.n-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, n.i.g.g.e.r, as they call me, I'll show them that under a coloured skin there can be grat.i.tude, as much as under a white one--may be more. Show them!

What am I talkin' 'bout? There's n.o.body 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 n.i.g.g.e.r-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 _will_ do?"

The series of reflections, and questions, runs rapidly as thought itself. And to the last, quick as thought, comes an answer--a plan which promises a solution of the difficulty. He thinks of killing the dog--cutting its throat with his knife.

Only for an instant is the murderous intent in his mind. In the next he changes it, saying:

"I can't do that--no; the poor brute so 'fectionate an' faithful!

'Twould be downright cruel. A'most the same as murderin' a man. I wont do it."

Another pause spent in considering; another plan soon suggesting itself.

"Ah!" he exclaims, with air showing satisfied, "I have it now. That'll be just the thing."

The "thing" thus approved of, is to tie the hound to a tree, and so leave it.

First to get hold of it. For this he turns towards the animal, and commences coaxing it nearer. "Come up, ole fella. You aint afeerd o'

me. I'm Jupe, your master's friend, ye know. There's a good dog! Come now; come!"