A voice, borne by the wind, floated up and into the air, speaking only a few, very few words; but they were full of strange meaning. The pursuers did not hear it, neither did any one else—only the trees in Dead-Man’s Forest. But it spoke, notwithstanding.
Cato was on his way to meet the party, and was running quite rapidly, when he entered a small glade, one of the many that embellished the gloomy old wood. He drew back out of sight, directly, and ensconced himself under a bush.
What had he seen?—nothing. Had he heard any noise to alarm him?—no. Had he received any warning about this particular spot?—no. Then why did he fear to emerge into the glade? Why did he hide under the bush?
He could not tell. The moment he had set his foot into the glade a large tree in the center of it attracted his attention; a feeling of fear came over him. Nay, more—a feeling of positive terror. He was absolutely afraid to enter it.
Now, there was nothing remarkable about that tree—it was a common oak, rather devoid of foliage. No man could hide in its top—a coon would have been discovered by a greenhorn if he had trusted to its shelter. Its trunk was of the size of a man’s body, not large enough to shelter a large man; no one could hide behind it without rolling himself into a ball. Neither had the tree that awkward appendage of a rope hanging pendent from a dead limb—nor the more awkward habit of staring a man in the face as some trees do, as if they were saying:
“Avoid me! this is a weird, ghostly spot!”
It was a common tree—nothing more.
He watched it awhile uneasily, then softly arose, and intending to skulk around the glade, started stealthily on. But before he had half completed the circuit, a faint voice, seemingly from a great distance, said:
“Stop!”
He did so, in a cold sweat, and shaking from head to foot. His eyes were fixed on the tree as if fascinated. What was the matter with the tree?