They are taken in, one after another; and all—both dogs and men—are now carried to the island.
They go to continue the search—for there is still some doubt as to the fate of the runaway.
They land—the dogs are sent through the bushes, while the men glide round the edge to the scene of the struggle. They find no track or trace upon the shore.
But there is one upon the water. Some froth still floats—there is a tinge of carmine upon it—beyond a doubt it is the blood of the mulatto.
“All right, boys!” cries a rough fellow; “that’s blueskin’s blood, I’ll sartify. He’s gone under an’ no mistake. Darn the varmint! it’s clean spoilt our sport.”
The jest is received with shouts of boisterous laughter.
In such a spirit talked the man-hunters, as they returned from the chase.