But he was prepared; again the same weird shadow, as spectral and monstrous as a dream, dashed out into the brief light of the open, but this time it was stopped, and rolled over convulsively before it had crossed.Flushed, with the fire of fight in his veins, Courtland turned almost furiously from the fallen brutes at his feet to meet the onset of the more cowardly hunters whom he knew were at his heels.At that moment it would have fared ill with the foremost.No longer the calculating steward and diplomatic manager, no longer the cool-headed arbiter of conflicting interests, he was ready to meet them, not only with the intrepid instincts of a soldier, but with an aroused partisan fury equal to their own.To his surprise no one followed; the baying of a third hound seemed to be silenced and checked; the silence was broken only by the sound of distant disputing voices and the uneasy trampling of hoofs.This was followed by two or three rifle shots in the distance, but not either in the direction of the quarters nor the Dows' dwelling-house.There evidently was some interruption in the pursuit,--a diversion of some kind had taken place,--but what he knew not.He could think of no one who might have interfered on his behalf, and the shouting and wrangling seemed to be carried on in the accents of the one sectional party.He called cautiously to Cato.The negro did not reply.He crossed to the tree and shook it impatiently.Its boughs were empty; Cato was gone! The miserable negro must have taken advantage of the first diversion in his favor to escape.But where, and how, there was nothing left to indicate.
As Courtland had taken little note of the trail, he had no idea of his own whereabouts.He knew he must return to the fringe of cypress to be able to cross the open field and gain the negro quarters, where it was still possible that Cato had fled.Taking a general direction from the few stars visible above the opening, he began to retrace his steps.But he had no longer the negro's woodcraft to guide him.At times his feet were caught in trailing vines which seemed to coil around his ankles with ominous suggestiveness; at times the yielding soil beneath his tread showed his perilous proximity to the swamp, as well as the fact that he was beginning to incline towards that dread circle which is the hopeless instinct of all lost and straying humanity.Luckily the edge of the swamp was more open, and he would be enabled to correct his changed course again by the position of the stars.But he was becoming chilled and exhausted by these fruitless efforts, and at length, after a more devious and prolonged detour, which brought him back to the swamp again, he resolved to skirt its edge in search of some other mode of issuance.Beyond him, the light seemed stronger, as of a more extended opening or clearing, and there was even a superficial gleam from the end of the swamp itself, as if from some ignis fatuus or the glancing of a pool of unbroken water.A few rods farther brought him to it and a full view of the unencumbered expanse.Beyond him, far across the swamp, he could see a hillside bathed in the moonlight with symmetrical lines of small white squares dotting its slopes and stretching down into a valley of gleaming shafts, pyramids, and tombs.It was the cemetery; the white squares on the hillside were the soldiers' graves.And among them even at that distance, uplifting solemnly, like a reproachful phantom, was the broken shaft above the dust of Chester Brooks.
With the view of that fateful spot, which he had not seen since his last meeting there with Sally Dows, a flood of recollection rushed upon him.In the white mist that hung low along the farther edge of the swamp he fancied he could see again the battery smoke through which the ghostly figure of the dead rider had charged his gun three years before; in the vapory white plumes of a funereal plant in the long avenue he was reminded of the light figure of Miss Sally as she appeared at their last meeting.In another moment, in his already dazed condition, he might have succumbed to some sensuous memory of her former fascinations, but he threw it off savagely now, with a quick and bitter recalling of her deceit and his own weakness.Turning his back upon the scene with a half-superstitious tremor, he plunged once more into the trackless covert.But he was conscious that his eyesight was gradually growing dim and his strength falling.He was obliged from time to time to stop and rally his sluggish senses, that seemed to grow heavier under some deadly exhalation that flowed around him.He even seemed to hear familiar voices,--but that must be delusion.
At last he stumbled.Throwing out an arm to protect himself, he came heavily down upon the ooze, striking a dull, half-elastic root that seemed--it must have been another delusion--to move beneath him, and even--so confused were his senses now--to strike back angrily upon his prostrate arm.A sharp pain ran from his elbow to shoulder and for a moment stung him to full consciousness again.
There were voices surely,--the voices of their former pursuers! If they were seeking to revenge themselves upon him for Cato's escape, he was ready for them.He cocked his revolver and stood erect.Atorch flashed through the wood.But even at that moment a film came over his eyes; he staggered and fell.
An interval of helpless semi-consciousness ensued.He felt himself lifted by strong arms and carried forward, his arm hanging uselessly at his side.The dank odor of the wood was presently exchanged for the free air of the open field; the flaming pine-knot torches were extinguished in the bright moonlight.People pressed around him, but so indistinctly he could not recognize them.All his consciousness seemed centred in the burning, throbbing pain of his arm.He felt himself laid upon the gravel; the sleeve cut from his shoulder, the cool sensation of the hot and bursting skin bared to the night air, and then a soft, cool, and indescribable pressure upon a wound he had not felt before.A voice followed,--high, lazily petulant, and familiar to him, and yet one he strove in vain to recall.
"De Lawdy-Gawd save us, Miss Sally! Wot yo' doin' dah? Chile!
Chile! Yo' 'll kill yo'se'f, shuah!"
The pressure continued, strange and potent even through his pain, and was then withdrawn.And a voice that thrilled him said:--"It's the only thing to save him! Hush, ye chattering black crow!
Say anything about this to a living soul, and I'll have yo'
flogged! Now trot out the whiskey bottle and pour it down him."