But there arose another, far more dreadful, because far more probable—
The black might be asleep!
Far more probable, because night was his day, and day his night. At night he was abroad, roaming and busy—by day he was at home and slept.
Oh, Heavens! if he should be asleep, and not have heard the signal!
Such was the terrible fancy that rushed across my brain.
I felt suddenly impelled to repeat the signal—though I thought at the time, if my conjecture were correct, there was but little hope he would hear me. A negro sleeps like a torpid bear. The report of a gun or a railway-whistle alone could awake one. There was no chance for a puny pipe like mine—the more especially as the screaming concert still continued.
“Even if he should hear it, he would hardly be able to distinguish the whistle from—Merciful heavens!”
I was speaking to my companion when this exclamation interrupted me. It came from my own lips, but with involuntary utterance. It was called forth by a sound of dread import—a sound that I could hear above the shrill screaming of the birds, and hearing could interpret. It was the trumpet-like baying of a hound!
I stood bent, and listening; I heard it again. There was no mistaking that note. I had the ears of a hunter. I knew the music well.
Oh, how unlike to music then! It fell upon my ears like a cry of vengeance—like a knell of death!