Horror of horrors! he is robbing the dead.
Rody saw him not, for he had again fainted.
With a harsh voice, rivalling the vulture’s croak, the skulker continued his hideous task.
“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled he to himself, “there am nice pickings after all for dis chile, boaf from de bodies of white man and de red. Bress de chances what set ’em agin’ each oder! Oh, but de ole nigger am glad—so glad! But where am he?—where am he? If dis chile don’t find him, why den his work ain’t more den half done!”
Diligently did Crookleg, for it was he, continue to search, turning over dead bodies, snatching some bauble from their breasts, and so passing to others, as if still unsatisfied.
For whom was he seeking?
As he proceeded in his work, a voice that came from among a heap of ruins, was heard feebly calling for “water!”
The negro started on hearing it, sending forth a shout of triumph.
He had recognised it as the voice of Elias Rody, the man for whom he had been searching.
As the latter recovered consciousness, he saw a hideous face close to his own, that caused him to start up, at the same time uttering a cry of horror.