“I’ll tell yer in a minit, Cap’n.”
The hunter waved his hand to enjoin silence, and, striding to the edge of the glade, fell flat to the ground. We knew he was listening, and waited for the result. We had not long to wait, for he had scarce brought his ear in contact with the earth when he sprang suddenly up again, exclaiming:
“Houn’s trailin’ us!”
He wore a despairing look unusual to the bold character of his features. This, with the appalling statement, acted on us like a galvanic shock, and by one impulse we leaped from the fire and threw ourselves flat upon the grass.
Not a word was spoken as we strained our ears to listen.
At first we could distinguish a low moaning sound, like the hum of a wild bee; it seemed to come out of the earth. After a little it grew louder and sharper; then it ended in a yelp and ceased altogether. After a short interval it began afresh, this time still clearer; then came the yelp, loud, sharp, and vengeful. There was no mistaking that sound. It was the bark of the Spanish bloodhound.
We sprang up simultaneously, looking around for weapons, and then staring at each other with an expression of despair.
The rifle and two case-knives were all the weapons we had.
“What’s to be done!” cried one, and all eyes were turned upon Lincoln.
The hunter stood motionless, clutching his rifle and looking to the ground.