He had reached the goal of his journey—for that day—and the spot on which he was likely to pass the night.
A low stemless bush grew near; and, laying himself down behind it, he resumed the espionage, that could scarce be said to have been interrupted.
Throughout the live-long night Zeb Stump never closed both eyes at the same time. One was always on the watch; and the unflagging earnestness, with which he maintained it, proclaimed him to be acting under the influence of some motive beyond the common.
During the earlier hours he was not without sounds to cheer, or at least relieve, the monotony of his lonely vigil. There was the hum of voices from the slave cabins; with now and then a peal of laughter. But this was more suppressed than customary; nor was it accompanied by the clear strain of the violin, or the lively tink-a-tink of the banjo—sounds almost characteristic of the “negro-quarter,” at night.
The sombre silence that hung over the “big house” extended to the hearths of its sable retainers.
Before midnight the voices became hushed, and stillness reigned everywhere; broken only at intervals by the howl of a straying hound—uttered in response to the howl-bark of a coyoté taking care to keep far out upon the plain.
The watcher had spent a wearisome day, and could have slept—but for his thoughts. Once when these threatened to forsake him, and he was in danger of dozing, he started suddenly to his feet; took a turn or two over the sward; and, then lying down again, re-lit his pipe; stuck his head into the heart of the bush; and smoked away till the bowl was burnt empty.
During all this time, he kept his eyes upon the great gateway of the mansion; whose massive door—he could tell by the moonlight shining upon it—remained shut.
Again did he change his post of observation; the sun’s rising—as its setting had done—seeming to give him the cue.