Augustus Horton gazed at the negro for some moments, with a look of mingled surprise and disdain. There was something almost terrific in the fiery energy of the African. Something, which in its terror approached almost to sublimity.
"Shall I serve you, massa?" said Tristan.
"Yes," exclaimed the planter, "you shall be my bloodhound, and help me to hunt down my enemies."
CHAPTER XX.
HEAVEN HELPS THOSE WHO TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.
In the far depths of a Californian forest, the timber roof of a solitary log-hut peeped through the trees.
It was a dreary dilapidated building, which had been deserted by former settlers, and neglected by those who now dwelt in it.
The rough wooden shutters that sheltered the one solitary window were rotting upon their hinges; the wind whistled in shrill cadences through the crevices of the logs.
As far as the eye could reach there was no vestige of any human habitation, while the rustling of the leaves and the hungry howls of the wolves only broke the silence of the night.
It was difficult to imagine this place to be the dwelling of any civilized being; but yet it was tenanted by two men, who had lived in it for the best part of the year, attended by a negro slave, an honest fellow, who served them as faithfully in that dreary retreat as if they had dwelt in a palace.