“How does the chief know that?  Has he seen him?” Though my long exile had well-nigh cost me the trick of it, I made shift to drop into the stately Indian hyperbole.

“Wah!  Uncanoola has seen the Great Water:  that make him have long eyes—­see heap things.”

“Will the Catawba tell the friend whose life he saved what he has seen?”

“Uncanoola see heap things,” he repeated.  “See Captain Jennif’ so”—­he threw himself flat upon the ground and pictured me a fugitive crawling snake-like through the underwood.  “Bime-by, come to river and find canoe—­jump in and paddle fas’; bime-by, ’gain, stop paddling and laugh and shake fist this way, and say ‘God-damn.’”

By this I knew that Jennifer had escaped; nay, more; had somehow learned of my escape and was seeking me.

“Is that all the chief saw?” I asked.

“Ugh!  See heap more things:  see one thing white squaw no let him tell Captain Long-knife.  Maybe some time tell, anyhow.”

“The white squaw?” said I.  “Who is she?”

The Catawba laughed, an Indian laugh, silent and suppressed; a mere shaking of the ribs.

“No can tell that, neither, too,” he said.  Then, with a swift dart aside from the subject:  “Captain Long-knife care much ’bout black dogs yonder?”

I knew he meant the negroes at the hunting lodge.

“The white man cares for the black as a kind master should,” I returned.

The Indian spat upon the ground in token of his hatred and contempt for all the black skins in his fatherland.  I never understood this bitter race antipathy between the red and black, but ’tis a tale well written out in many a bloody massacre of that earlier day.

“The wolves will kill all the black dogs and drink their blood before the moon is awake.  Uncanoola has spoken.”

I sheathed my sword and turned to take the backward trace.

“Captain Long-knife will go and fight for his black dogs with wool on their heads?” he queried.

“If need be,” I asserted.

“Wah!” he ejaculated, and at the word was gone as if the earth had swallowed him.

I lost no time in indecision.  Since Jennifer was abroad, I had no business at the plantations; and if Tomas and the other refugees were like to come to harm, I could do no less than hasten back to warn or help them.

So I retraced my steps, hurriedly, as the business urged; and saw no more shadows in the ancient wood—­in truth, had much ado to see the single step ahead, so thickly did the darkness gather in those skyless depths.

I was breasting the last low hill, was come so near that I could hear the murmur of the river, when in the farthest hazy vista of the tree-tops a softened glow appeared, changing the black to green and then to red.  ’Twas like the childish Africans, I said, to draw a secret sentry line for safety’s sake, and then to build a fire to advertise it far and wide.  Truly, the Catawba’s wolves might find an easy—­