The night had fallen; the winds shrieked, like some troubled spirit, amid the branches of the trees; red streaks of light gleamed through the cracks of the window shutters and the crevices of the rude timber edifice; the door of the hut is securely closed, though in that lonely region there is little need of bolt or bar.
Let us peep into the neglected building, and gaze unseen upon its occupants.
The two men are seated on either side of a blazing fire of brushwood and broken timber, while the negro sits on a low stool, at a respectful distance, waiting till his masters may have need of his services.
His honest face beams with good temper and contentment, even in that dreary abode.
But it is not so with his masters.
They are both smoking long cherry-stemmed meerschaum pipes, and they sit in silence, their eyes gloomily fixed upon the blazing fire.
It is impossible to judge of their rank in life, for they are both dressed in cutaway velveteen coats, corduroy breeches, and great hob-nail boots—serviceable garments suited to their rude life, but which elsewhere would be worn only by laboring men.
They are both in the prime of life, and one is rather handsome; but they have allowed their hair and whiskers to grow in the roughest fashion, and their faces are bronzed by constant exposure to every variety of weather.
The elder of the two is the first to speak.
"Well, Brown," he says, with a sigh of weariness, "nearly a year gone since we set foot in this dreary district and no good done yet."