Here, at least, the lovely child of an accursed and trampled race was free. Here no master dared molest her tranquil slumber. Death sets the slave and the prisoner alike at liberty.
The red sun sank in crimson splendor beneath the purple waters of the mighty river; upon every forest tree gleamed golden reflections of the dying light; upon the bosom of each quiet pool the last sunbeams faded and flickered in the shadowy twilight, while, calmly beautiful, the moon arose in her tranquil glory, bathing forest and river in a flood of silvery radiance.
The last glimmer of crimson light was slowly fading as two men advanced through one of the pathways of the wood—a pathway so overarched by the rich spreading branches of the trees that it seemed one verdant arcade.
Each of these men carried a carbine upon his shoulder, and a powder flask slung at his side.
The first was William Bowen, the second, who closely followed his companion, was Augustus Horton. They emerged from the arcade into an open piece of turf, around which the trunks of the giant trees formed a species of a wall.
"Where, in the name of all that's diabolical, are you leading me, Bill?" said Augustus, looking about him.
"I guess you don't know your way in this here wood by moonlight, Mr. Horton," answered Bill Bowen, laughing; "but we're all right for all that. That is the spot where we appointed to meet that young Englishman and your precious cousin, Mr. Mortimer Percy, who ought to be ashamed of himself for taking a Britisher's part against his own countryman, and against his own flesh and blood, too, as far as that goes."
"Curse him!" muttered Augustus between his teeth.
"Curse him, and welcome, sir, for my part—but this is where we promised to meet him and his friend. We're close against Craig's plantation. You could see the nigger huts through the trees if the leaves were not so tarnation thick."
"Hark!" said the young planter; "what's that?"