Chapter Thirty Seven.
Killing a Trail.
An hour or more we had spent since entering the glade—now no longer terrible. Once more its flowers looked bright, and their perfume had recovered its sweetness. Once more the singing of the birds and the hum of the insect-world fell soothingly upon my ears; and there, as before, sat the pretty doves, still repeating their soft “co-co-a”—the endearing expression of their loves.
I could have lingered long in the midst of this fair scene—long have enjoyed its sylvan beauty; but the intellectual must over yield to the physical. I felt sensations of hunger, and soon the appetite began to distress me. Where was I to obtain relief from this pain—where obtain food? I could not ask my companion to guide me to the plantations, now that I knew the risk he would run in so doing. I knew that it really was as he had stated—the loss of an arm, perhaps of life, should he be caught. There was but little hope of mercy for him—the less so as he had no master with power to protect him, and who might be interested in his not being thus crippled!
By approaching the open country on the edge of the clearings, he would not only run the hazard of being seen, but, what he feared still more, being tracked by hounds! This mode of searching for “runaways” was not uncommon, and there were even white men base enough to follow it as a calling! So learnt I from my companion. His information was afterwards confirmed by my own experience!
I was hungry—what was to be done? I could not find my way alone. I might again get lost, and have to spend the night in the swamp. What had I best do?
I appealed to my companion. He had been silent for some time—busy with his thoughts. They were running on the same subject as my own. The brave fellow had not forgotten me.
“Jes what dis nigga am thinkin’ ’bout,” replied he. “Well, mass’,” he continued, “when sun go down, den I guide you safe—no fear den. Gabr’l take you close to de Lebee road. Mass’ must wait till sun go down.”