In confidence the trackers keep on; but obstructed by the close standing trunks, with thick underwood between, they make but slow progress. They are more than an hour in getting across the timbered tract; a distance that should not have taken quarter the time.
At length, arriving on its edge, they make stop; Clancy drawing back the dog. Looking across the plain he sees that, which tells him the instinct of the animal will be no longer needed—at least for a time.
The moon, shining upon the meadow grass, shows a list differently shaded; where the tall culms have been bent down and crushed by the hoof of some heavy quadruped, that has made its way amidst them. And recently too, as Clancy, skilled in tracking, can tell; knowing, also, it is the track of Dick Darke’s horse.
“You see it?” he says, pointing to the lighter shaded line. “That’s the assassin’s trail. He’s gone out here, and straight across the bottom. He’s made for the bluff yonder. From this he’s been putting his animal to speed; gone in a gallop, as the stretch between the tracks show. He may go that way, or any other, ’twill make no difference in the end. He fancies himself clever, but for all his cleverness he’ll not escape me now.”
“I hope not, Masser Charle; an’ don’t think he will; don’t see how he can.”
“He can’t.”
For some time Clancy is silent, apparently absorbed in serious reflection. At length, he says to his follower:—
“Jupe, my boy, in your time you have suffered much yourself, and should know something of what it is to feel vengeful. But not a vengeance like mine. That you can’t understand, and perhaps may think me cruel.”
“You, Masser Charle!”
“I don’t remember ever having done a harsh thing in my life, or hurt to anyone not deserving it.”