CHAPTER VI.
"It's my hound. Miss Weems, and I guess he's on the track of that nigger, Jim."
Oriana started as if stung by a serpent, and rising to her feet, looked upon the man with such an expression of contempt and loathing that the ruffian's brow grew black with anger as he returned her gaze. Harold confronted him, and spoke in a low, earnest tone, and between his clenched teeth:
"If you are a man you will go at once. This persecution of a woman is beneath even your brutality. If you have an account with me, I will not balk you. But relieve her from the outrage of your presence here."
"I guess I'd better be around," replied Rawbon, coolly, as he leaned against the door, with his hands in his coat pocket. "That dog is dangerous when he's on the scent. You see, Miss Weems," he continued, speaking over Harold's shoulder, "my niggers are plaguy troublesome, and I keep the hound to cow them down a trifle. But he wouldn't hurt a lady, I think—unless I happened to encourage him a bit, do you see."
And the man showed his black teeth with a grin that caused Oriana to shudder and turn away.
Harold's brow was like a thunder-cloud, from beneath which his eyes flashed like the lightning at midnight.
"Your words imply a threat which I cannot understand. Ruffian! What do mean?"