The stranger lays his left hand on Romescos’ arm, and with the fore finger of his right hand pointing to the south-west, says, “My plantation is nine miles in that direction.  I left it this morning, early.  In crossing an inlet of the Pedee, I discovered white smoke, far ahead, curling upward through the trees, and expanding itself in the clear blue atmosphere.  Feeling sure it indicated the haunt of runaways, I approached it stealthily, and had almost unconsciously come upon a negro, who, suddenly springing from his hiding-place, ran to the water’s edge, plunged in, and swam to a little island a few yards in the stream.  It did not become me to pursue him, so I passed on heedlessly, lest he might have companions, who would set upon me, and make me an easy prey to their revengeful feelings.”  As each word fell from the stranger’s lips, Romescos and his companion became irresistibly excited.

Again repeating the directions, which the stranger did with great precision, they drank a parting social glass:  the mounted huntsmen thanked the pedestrian for his valuable information, gave him a warm shake of the hand, and, as he arranged his haversack, rode off at full gallop in the direction indicated.  The dogs, cunning brutes, trained to the state’s brutality, mutely kept in advance.  “In luck yet!” exclaims Bengal, as they rode onward, in high glee, anticipating the valuable game about to fall into their hands.

“Ho! dogs-and back!” shrieked Romescos, at the top of his shrill voice, his sandy hair hanging in tufts over his little reddened face, now glowing with excitement.  Instantly the dogs started off through the thicket, and after making a circle of about a mile, returned with heads up, and eyes fiercely flashing.  Trailing in a semicircle ahead they seemed eager for another command.

“Better keep them back,” mutters Bengal; and as Romescos gives the word,—­“Come back!” they form a trail behind.

Now white fleecy clouds begin to obscure the sun; then it disappears in a murky haze, and is no longer their guide.  After two hours’ riding they find a wrong turn has led them far away from their course, and to avoid retracing their steps they make a short cut through the thicket.  In another hour they have reached the bank of the stream they sought.  Dogs, horses, and men, together drink of its limpid waters, and proceed onward.  They have yet several miles of travel before reaching the spot designated by the strange hunter; and seeking their way along the bank is a slow and tedious process.  The prize-that human outcast, who has no home where democracy rules,—­is the all-absorbing object of their pursuit; money is the god of their hellish purpose.

It is near night-fall, when they, somewhat wearied of the day’s ride, halt on a little slope that extends into the river, and from which a long view of its course above opens out.  It seems a quiet, inviting spot, and so sequestered that Bengal suggests it be made a resting-place for the night.