It was not altogether accident that conducted him thither; but rather that, in that direction, he heard, or fancied he heard, voices.
As he drew near to the decapitated tree, a glittering object on the ground caught his eye. He halted, thinking it might be a snake—a creature of which most plantation negroes have a wholesome dread.
On scrutinising the object more closely, Quashie was surprised to perceive that the glittering object was a gun; and, on a still nearer acquaintance with it, he saw that it was the gun of the buckra sportsman!
It was lying upon the grass near the bottom of the dead-wood. What was it doing there?
Where was the buckra himself? Had some accident happened to him? Why had he abandoned his gun? Had he shot himself? Or had somebody else shot him?
Just at that moment the most lugubrious of sounds fell upon Quashie’s ear. It was a groan, long-drawn and hollow—as if some tortured spirit was about taking its departure from the earth! It resembled the voice of a man, as of some one speaking from the interior of a tomb!
The darkey stood horrified—his black epidermis turning to an ashy-grey colour, quick as the change of a chameleon.
He would have taken to his heels, but a thought restrained him. It might be the buckra still alive, and in trouble? In that case he, Quashie, would be punished for deserting him.
The voice appeared to issue from behind the dead-wood. Whoever uttered it must be there. Perhaps the sportsman lay wounded upon the other side?
Quashie screwed up his courage as high as it would go, and commenced moving round to the other side of the stump. He proceeded cautiously, step by step, scrutinising the ground as he went.