Ah! the blessed, blessed light that flamed out from the merry pine-torch; he didn’t wonder that half the Eastern world worshiped fire.  He adored it—­blessed, blessed fire—­the sign of God, the beacon of the human.  Hark!  What half-human—­or rather wholly inhuman—­sounds are these that alternate in unearthly measure?  Surely animal nature has no voice so strident, vengeful, odious.  Can it be animals of prey?  No.  The Virginia forests are dangerous only in snakes.  Snakes?  Ah, yes!  He shrinks into shadow against the oak at this suggestion; snakes? the deadly moccasin, that prowls as well by night as day.  Ugh! what’s this at his feet—­soft, clammy, shining in the flaring light?  He leaps upon the smooth tree-trunk, growing slantwise instead of perpendicular.  What if the torch and the odor of flesh should draw the snakes to the sleeper?  The flame flares in wide, lurid curves, revealing the outlines of the sleeping man.  Heavens, what a terrible face!  He moves in spasmodic contortions.  He is smothering.  The veins of his neck will break if he is not awakened.

“O my God! my God! have mercy!” Dick buries his face in his hands, as he clings desperately to the smooth white-oak trunk.  A strange, wild strain, like a detached chord of a vesper melody, sounds above him!  It is the whippoorwill—­steadily, continuously, entrancingly the dulcet measure is taken up and echoed, until the slough of despond seems transformed into a varying diapason of melancholy minstrelsy.  He dares not raise his head.  It will vanish if he moves.  He crouches, panting, almost exultant, in the sense of recovered faculties, or rather the suspension of numbing fear.  How long will it last?  He must move; his limbs are cramped and aching.  He raises his head.  Mortal powers! the torch is flickering into ashes!  Another instant and he will be in the dark.  Dare he move?  Dare he seek the distant pine, between him and which the black surface of the murky sheet shines, dotted with uncanny growth and reptilian things?  Yes; anything is better than the hideous darkness of this hideous place.

The horse he rode has broken his leash and comes to him with a gentle whinny, as if asking why the delay in such a place.  “Blessed, blessed God, that made a beast so human!” He caresses it, he clings to its neck and calls to it piteously.  Ah, yes; the dying light.  He must renew it.  He slips down upon the bare back and urges the patient beast across the brackish morass.  Ah, this is life again!  He is not alone.  This noble beast is human.  It crops the tender leaves confidingly, and swings its head as much as to say:  “Don’t fear, Dick; Fin here.  I’ll stand by you; I don’t forget the pains you took to get me water, and that particularly toothsome measure of oats you cribbed in the rebel barn near Williamsburg!”