All at once, the hoof-stroke ceases to be heard, and stillness reigns around. No sound save that made by the claws of the dog, that continues its task with unabated assiduity—not yet having taken any notice of the footsteps it can scarce fail to hear.
Its master cannot help thinking this strange. Brasfort is not wont to be thus unwatchful. And of all men Richard Darke should be the last to approach him unawares. What may it mean?
While thus interrogating himself, Clancy again hears the “tramp-tramp,” the horse no longer in a walk, but with pace quickened to a trot. And still Brasfort keeps on scraping! Only when a shadow darkens over, does he desist; the horseman being now close behind Clancy’s head, with his image reflected in front. But instead of rushing at him with savage growl, as he certainly would were it Richard Darke Brasfort but raises his snout, and wags his tail, giving utterance to a note of friendly salutation!
Clancy’s astonishment is extreme, changing to joy, when the horseman after making the circuit of his head, comes to a halt before his face. In the broad bright moonlight he beholds, not his direst foe, but his faithful servitor. There upon his own horse, with his own gun in hand, sits one who causes him mechanically to exclaim—
“Jupiter!” adding, “Heaven has heard my prayer!”
“An’ myen,” says Jupiter, soon as somewhat recovered from his astonishment at what he sees; “Yes, Masser Charle; I’se been prayin’ for you ever since they part us, though never ’spected see you ’live ’gain. But Lor’ o’ mercy, masser! what dis mean? I’se see nothin’ but you head! Wharever is you body? What have dem rascally ruffins been an’ done to ye?”
“As you see—buried me alive.”
“Better that than bury you dead. You sure, masser,” he asks, slipping down from the saddle, and placing himself vis-à-vis with the face so strangely situated. “You sure you ain’t wounded, nor otherways hurt?”
“Not that I know of. I only feel a little bruised and faint-like; but I think I’ve received no serious injury. I’m now suffering from thirst, more than aught else.”
“That won’t be for long. Lucky I’se foun’ you ole canteen on the saddle, an’ filled it ’fore I left the creek. I’se got somethin’ besides ’ll take the faintness ’way from you; a drop o’ corn-juice, I had from that Spanish Indyin they call the half-blood. Not much blood in him now. Here ’tis, Masser Charle.”