“The Live-Oak.”
At a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the path and its numerous obstructions, the painted robbers, with their captives, have continued on; reaching their destination about the time Clancy and his comrades turned back along the ford road.
From this they are now not more than three hundred yards distant, halted in the place spoken of as a rendezvous.
A singular spot it is—one of those wild forest scenes by which nature oft surprises and delights her straying worshipper.
It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree standing in its centre,—a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in girth, and branches spreading like a banyan. Though an evergreen, but little of its own foliage can be seen, only here and there a parcel of leaves at the extremity of a protruding twig; all the rest, great limbs and lesser branches, shrouded under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showing white as flax.
Its depending garlands, stirred by the night breeze, sway to and fro, like ghosts moving in a minuet; when still, appearing as the water of a cataract suddenly frozen in its fall, its spray converted into hoar frost, the jets to gigantic icicles.
In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, its bark gnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator.
This grim Titan of the forest, o’ertopping the other trees like a giant among men, stands alone, as though it had commanded them to keep their distance. And they seem to obey. Nearer than thirty yards to it none grow, nor so much as an underwood. It were easy to fancy it their monarch, and them not daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apart for itself.
With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends equally on all sides of its huge trunk, darkening half the surface of the glade—the other half in light, forming an illuminated ring around it. There could be no mistaking it for other than the “big tree,” referred to in the dialogue between the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is evident by their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight towards its stem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, having undone the cords by which the captives were attached to them.
When dismounted, the lieutenant, drawing Bosley a step or two apart, says:—