depredations upon the Atterburys.  Then he heard the faint sound of the scuffle, when Wesley throttled the compromising mastiff.  Should he slip over and warn Jack?  He was moving toward the door, when, through the stillness of the night, a sound came up from the direction of the quarters.  He ran lightly to the window again.  His eyes, now accustomed to the darkness in his room, distinguished clearly in the pale starlight.  He thrilled with a sudden sensation of choking.  Yonder, stealing houseward from the rose-gardens, he could plainly discern two—­four—­six—­moving figures.  Heavens, the slaves were out!  There was to be a servile uprising.  Now he must go and warn Jack; but he must note first whither the assassins were directing their attack.  Perhaps, with the aid of Jack’s pistols, they could be frightened away by a few shots from the windows.  He ran noiselessly to Jack’s room, to his bed, and whispered in his sleeping ear: 

“Jack, make no noise; dress yourself and come.  The negroes are surrounding the house, and Wesley is in mischief.”

Jack was awake and in his clothes in a few seconds.  He handed Dick one of the pistols, and, armed with the other, hastened toward Wesley’s room.  The door was open and all was silent.  Dick looked in hastily, marked the open window, and exclaimed: 

“He is gone!  Come to my room.  I know exactly where to locate them from my window; it is nearer the point they halted at than Wesley’s.”

Yes; figures were moving swiftly against the trellised walls that led to the kitchen.  They moved, too, with the precision of people thoroughly acquainted with the place.  Then some one appeared swiftly from under the shadow of the house; then three came toward it and passed under the veranda near Wesley’s window.  Jack leaned far out to discover what this diversion meant.  At the same instant the sounding gallopade of hoofs came from the tranquil roadway leading to the stables.  The shrill whinny of horses broke on the air.

“They are mounted.  There are a score of them!” Jack cried, desperately.  “We can at least keep them out of the house.”

“We can, if Wesley hasn’t opened the doors to them,” Dick said, shrewdly.

“That’s a fact.  But is it sure Wesley is not in his room?  Bring matches and let us examine it.”

There was no sign of Wesley in the room.  The cool night air poured in from the open window.

“Draw the curtain before you strike the match,” Jack whispered.  “We must not let a light be seen from the outside.”

“But the curtains are thin, the light will shine through.”

“Sh!  Come here.  By Heaven, it is Wesley, and he is dead!  No—­the devil!—­it is Pizarro—­dead!  Kneel down and strike a match, keeping between the light and the window.  One glance will be enough.”

One glimpse revealed the dog with distended tongue and half-glazed eyes, but still alive.  Jack loosed the band from the neck.  The dog gave a convulsive thrill and uttered a plaintive moan.