"Whar yer goin'?"
"Nowhar much—camp I guess."
"Ef yer want to gamble, put yer money on a funeral. I feel it in my bones."
"Whose funeral am dat den? I hain't heerd o' no corpse."
"Never you mind. Ther corpus 'll be laid out by the time mourners hes arrove."
The African was not cowardly, but he certainly was a little superstitious. The moody tone of Motler sounded almost prophetic, and he wondered whether it could possibly be his own funeral that was meant. He had seen men rubbed out in unexpected ways and at short notice. He revolved this, in his mind, a few moments, and even questioned whether it would not be best to turn aside and let his unsought companion attend the obsequies by himself. Perhaps he might have done so had the meeting occurred a little sooner; but the catastrophe came quicker than he expected.
First he heard sounds beyond the intervening vail of foliage, and obtained a confused impression that there was that transpiring which needed his attention. Personal fears were flung to the winds, as Mike Motler, quickening his gait, whispered:
"Didn't I tell yer! Wait an' ye'll hear the bell a-ringin. I'm a-holden the rope now."
An ominous peal that bell would give when its rope was pulled! Motler was holding in his hands a twelve-pound rifle!
What occurred after the wall of branches, that finally intervened, was parted, Pompey could never fully comprehend. At least he remembered the shout of a man, a confused struggle, the screams of a woman; then the death-bell at his side tolled once.