If ever a truly wretched man trod the dark paths of the forests of the Illinois, it was John Williamson, and when night came he supported the wounded renegade to the woods, illy lighted by the scintillations of the stars.
For a long time Jules Bardue signaled his braves, who he knew could not be far away; but no answering footsteps greeted their ears.
At length the distant crack of rifles was faintly heard, and they listened more intently than ever.
The conflict at the cave was raging furiously, and as the twain listened they heard the deathly sounds die away.
“Williamson, we must hasten yonder,” he cried. “Pick me up and run like lightning. If you do not obey, remember you’re a dead man.”
With an inward groan, the terror-stricken man lifted the renegade from the ground and started forward.
But his knees smote each other, and he feared that his burden was greater than he could bear.
He ran a few rods, and then, utterly exhausted, sunk to the earth.
It was in vain that the creole cursed his slave and in the midst of his anathemas a hasty footstep was heard approaching them.
The Bloodhound clutched his knife, but the next moment it was hurled from his hand.