Then, treading with the utmost caution, they commenced to circle the treacherous quagmire, seeking for some trace of the vanished man and his savage canine pursuers. And they did not search in vain.
Suddenly Nichols stopped. Pointing to a mark on the ground, he exclaimed—
"Someone has stepped here lately. A man in stockinged feet."
"That's right," cried Laurence; "the Indian does not wear boots."
"And never will," replied the coachman grimly. "His body and the hounds have gone down, down into the marsh. See, here is the mark of one of the hounds. They have all gone down together. Oh, Lord, how awful, and all my fault!"
"No, not your fault, Nichols. You couldn't help the hounds escaping. They scented the Indian, and for some reason or other started in pursuit. But what's this?" He bent down, picked up something that lay on the very brink of the bubbling marsh, and examined it.
It was a long, narrow strip of yellowish hairy cloth—the harmless-looking weapon by means of which the Thug had attempted the murder of Squire Carrington!
No possible shadow of doubt remained but that the terrible avenger from over the sea had perished in the Wizard's Marsh.
The Squire's dread and danger were at an end. His merciless foe was no more.