The search was kept up for some time longer, with no light but an occasional flash from the skies; but finally abandoned, as we have seen.

Jackson passed several hours most uncomfortably and painfully on his elevated perch, quaking with fear of both man and reptile, not daring to come down or to sleep in his precarious position, or able to do so for the pain of his wound, and growing hour by hour weaker from the bleeding which it was impossible to check entirely.

Then his mind was in a state of great disturbance, His wound must be dressed, and that speedily; yet how could it be accomplished without imperiling life and liberty?  Perhaps he had now two new murders on his hands; he did not know, but he had at least attempted to take life, and the story would fly on the wings of the wind; such stories always did.

He had been lurking about the neighborhood for days, and had learned that Dr. Balis, an excellent physician and surgeon, lived on a plantation, some two or three miles eastward from Viamede.  He must contrive a plausible story, and go to him; at break of day, before the news of the attack on Viamede would be likely to reach him.  It would be a risk, but what better could be done?  He might succeed in quieting the doctor’s suspicions, and yet make good his escape from the vicinity.

The storm had spent itself before the break of day, and descending from his perch with the first faint rays of light that penetrated the gloomy recesses of the swamp, he made his way out of it, slowly and toilsomely, with weary, aching limbs, suffering intensely from the gnawings of hunger and thirst, the pain of his injury, and the fear of being overtaken by the avengers of his innocent victims.  Truly, as the Bible tells us, “the way of transgressors is hard.”

The sun was more than an hour high when Dr. Balis, ready to start upon his morning round, and pacing thoughtfully to and fro upon the veranda of his dwelling while waiting for his horse, saw a miserable looking object coming up the avenue:  a man almost covered from head to foot with blood and mud; a white handkerchief, also both bloody and muddy, knotted around the right arm, which hung apparently useless at his side.  The man reeled as he walked, either from intoxication or weakness and fatigue.

The doctor judged the latter, and called to a servant, “Nap, go and help that man into the office.”  Then hurrying thither himself, got out lint, bandages, instruments, whatever might be needed for the dressing of a wound.  With the assistance of Nap’s strong arm, the man tottered in, then sank, half fainting, into a chair.

“A glass of wine, Nap, quick!” cried the doctor, sprinkling some water in his patient’s face, and applying ammonia to his nostrils.

He revived sufficiently to swallow with eager avidity the wine Nap held to his lips.

“Food, for the love of God,” he gasped.  “I’m starving!”

“Bread, meat, coffee, anything that is on the table, Nap,” said his master; “and don’t let the grass grow under your feet.”