The distant bird-note ceased, and then suddenly, from the bushes just ahead of them, it was caught up and answered, note for note, in a wild pibroch strain, harsher but inexpressibly moving.  Jack turned to Kate, his face quite pale, and whispered: 

“It in not a bird.  They are negroes.  I have read of these sounds.  They are marauding slaves, and we must not let them see us.  We must get to those thick clumps of bushes.  Do you think you can remain bent until we reach them?  If not, we will rest every few paces.”

“Go on.  I can try.”

The pibroch strains still continued, rising into a mournful wail, then sinking info the soft cries of the whip-poor-will.  In a few minutes the perplexed fugitives were deep in a clump of wild hawberries, invisible to any one who should pass.  The strains had ceased as suddenly as they began.  Then a faint hallo-o-o sounded, being answered in the bushes, as it seemed, just in front of where Jack and his companion stood; voices soon became audible farther along, ten or more paces.  Motioning to Kate, Jack crept along noiselessly, and fancied he could distinguish forms through the thick screen of bushes.  A voice, not a negro’s, said: 

“I went to the cove for you—­what was the matter?”

“I had the devil’s work to get through the posts.  For some reason or other they’re getting mighty sharp.  I must be back before twelve; what’s been done?”

“Well, the mokes consent to go, but they won’t touch the ranch.  You’ll have to bring up a few hands; the fewer the better.  If them damned feather-bed sojers wasn’t there, we could do the job ourselves.”

“When, does the boss get out?”

“Next week.  I don’t know what day.  They’d pay high for him both ways.”

“No, we can’t nibble there.  The cap’n’ll pay well.  That’s square.  We can’t afford to try the other now, at any rate.  Is the skiff here?”

“Yes; well, get in.”

There was a plash and the-receding sound of voices.  Jack darted through the screen of branches, but he could not distinguish the figures, for it was growing every instant dimmer twilight.  He turned to Kate.  She was at his side.

“Who were they—­what were they planning?  Were they soldiers?” she asked.

“Never mind them now.  We must find a way out of this.  Our boat can’t be far off.  We must follow this line of bushes until we come to the spot we left.  I know I can recognize it, for there was an enormous tree fallen a few steps from the sedge bank we landed on.”

It was a very toilsome journey now, obliged as they were to hug the obstinate growth of haws, wild alder, and dog roses, which tore flesh and garments in the hurried flight.  They came to the dead tree finally, and Jack almost shouted in grateful relief: 

“You were a true prophet, Miss Boone.  You gave utterance to some Druid-like remarks as we crossed the Stygian pool.  The worst your fancy painted couldn’t equal what we’ve seen and heard.”