“As I told you, brother,” remarked Basil, “we could never have followed his trail by the tracks. Even here we are not certain of it. These must be his though—they look a little fresher than the others. Let us try them. Marengo!”
“Stay, brother!” interrupted Lucien. “The last place I saw François was yonder. I caught a glimpse of him passing round that point of timber.”
“Ha! that is better. Perhaps, there his tracks may be separate from the others. Come on!”
They rode about a hundred paces farther, which brought them to the point of timber indicated by Lucien.
“Yes,” exclaimed Basil, “you are right! He has passed here. There are his tracks distinctly.”
Basil dismounted, giving Lucien his rein. He knelt upon the grass, and examined the hoof-prints, one after the other, with extreme care.
“So!” he muttered, as he rose again to his feet, “I shall know you among a thousand.”
“Make yourself ready for a hard ride,” he continued, addressing Lucien. “The dog, no doubt, will lead us in a gallop. Marengo!”
The hound came running up to where the young hunter was stooping over the trail. The latter held a red object in his arms. It was François’ blanket, which he had loosed from his horse’s flank, and flung away when starting on the chase. The dog scented the blanket, uttering as he did so a low whimper, and gazing in his master’s face with a look of intelligence. He seemed to comprehend what was required of him.
Basil now flung the blanket over his own saddle, stooped again, drew his fingers along the grass, and, with a wave of his hand, motioned Marengo to follow its direction. The hound, uttering a single yelp, bent his nose to the ground, and sprang forward upon the trail.