Not long till the vibration of his tail tells he is once more on the scent.
Now stiffer than ever, and leading in a straight line. He goes direct for the copse of timber, which is now only a very short distance off.
Again Clancy draws the dog in, at the same time reining up his horse.
Jupe has done the same with his mule; and both bend their eyes upon the copse—the grove of black-jack oaks—scanning it with glances of inquiry. If Clancy but knew what is within, how in a glade near its centre, is the man they are seeking, he would no longer tarry for Brasfort’s trailing, but letting go the leash altogether, and leaping from his horse, rush in among the trees, and bring to a speedy reckoning him, to whom he owes so much misery.
Richard Darke dreams not of the danger so near him. He is in a deep sleep—the dreamless, helpless slumber of intoxication.
But a like near danger threatens Clancy himself, of which he is unconscious. With face towards the copse, and eyes eagerly scrutinising it, he thinks not of looking behind.
By the way his hound still behaves, there must be something within the grove. What can it be? He does not ask the question. He suspects—is, indeed, almost certain—his enemy is that something. Muttering to the mulatto, who has come close alongside, he says:—
“I shouldn’t wonder, Jupe, if we’ve reached our journey’s end. Look at Brasfort! See how he strains! There’s man or beast among those black-jacks—both I take it.”
“Looks like, masser.”
“Yes; I think we’ll there find what we’re searching for. Strange, too, his making no show. I can’t see sign of a movement.”