The sun had sunk below the horizon, and darkness was rapidly falling over the landscape.
A distant murmuring alone gave token of the proximity of the Indian village upon the hill.
After a few moments, and while Sansuta still stood beside the grove, these sounds ceased, and perfect silence reigned around the spot.
Presently a cuckoo’s note was heard—followed by another nearer and louder—that in its turn succeeded by three others.
Whilst the echo of the last still vibrated on the evening air, the maiden was startled by a sudden apparition.
It sprang into view at her very feet, as if the ground had opened suddenly to give it passage.
When the girl regained courage sufficient to look upon it, her fears were in no way lessened.
Standing in a grotesque attitude, she beheld a negro, with arms enveloped in a ragged garment, moving about like the sails of a windmill, whilst a low chuckle proceeded from his huge mouth.
“He! ho! ho! brest if de ole nigga didn’t skear de galumpious Injun. He! he! he! ’gorry if de Injun beauty ain’t turn white at de show of dis chile!”
It was Crookleg who spoke.