It is only the barking of a dog; but to him no sound could be more significant—more indicative of danger.
On its repetition, which almost instantly occurs, he plucks his paddle out of the water, leaving the dug-out to drift.
On his head is a wool hat of the cheap fabric supplied by the Penitentiaries of the Southern States, chiefly for negro wear. Tilting it to one side, he bends low, and listens.
Certainly a dog giving tongue—but in tone strange, unintelligible. It is a hound’s bay, but not as on slot, or chase.
It is a howl, or plaintive whine, as if the animal were tied up, or being chastised!
After listening to it for some time—for it is nearly continuous—the mulatto makes remark to himself. “There’s no danger in the growl of that dog. I know it nearly as well as my own voice. It’s the deer-hound that belong to young Masser Clancy. He’s no slave-catcher.”
Re-assured he again dips his blade, and pushes on as before.
But now on the alert, he rows with increased caution, and more noiselessly than ever. So slight is the plash of his paddle, it does not hinder him from noting every sound—the slightest that stirs among the cypresses.
The only one heard is the hound’s voice, still in whining, wailing note.
“Lor!” he exclaims once more, staying his stroke, and giving way to conjectures, “what can be the matter with the poor brute? There must be something amiss to make it cry; out in that strain. Hope ’taint no mischance happened its young masser, the best man about all these parts. Come what will, I’ll go to the ground, an’ see.”