Romescos, however, remained silent, pacing the floor unconcerned, except in his own anxiety-as if nothing had occurred to disturb him.  Advancing to the table, the new visitor, his face glowing with exultation, held forth, by the crispy hair, the blanched and bloody head of an unfortunate negro who had paid the penalty of the State’s allowance for outlaws.  “There:  beat that, who can?  Four hundred dollars made since breakfast;” he cries out at the top of his voice.  They cast a measured look at the ghastly object, as if it were a precious ornament, much valued for the price it would bring, according to law.  The demon expresses his joy, descants on his expertness and skill, holds up his prize again, turns it round, smiles upon it as his offering, then throws it into the fire place, carelessly, like a piece of fuel.  The dogs spring upon it, as if the trophy was for their feast; but he repulses them; dogs are not so bad after all-the canine is often the better of the two-the morsel is too precious for canine dogs,—­human dogs must devour it.  “There is nothing like a free country, nothing; and good business, when it’s well protected by law,” says Nimrod, seating himself at the table, filling a glass, bowing to his companions, drinking to the health of his friends.  He imagines himself the best fellow of the lot.  Taking Graspum by the hand, he says, “there is a clear hundred for you, old patron!” pulls an Executive proclamation from his pocket, and points to where it sets forth the amount of reward for the outlaw-dead or alive.  “I know’d whar the brute had his hole in the swamp,” he continues:  “and I summed up the resolution to bring him out.  And then the gal o’ Ginral Brinkle’s, if I could pin her, would be a clear fifty more, provided I could catch her without damage, and twenty-five if the dogs havocked her shins.  There was no trouble in getting the fifty, seeing how my dogs were trained to the point and call.  Taste or no taste, they come square off at the word.  To see the critters trace a nigger, you’d think they had human in them; they understands it so!  But, I tell you what, it’s one thing to hunt a gal nigger, and another to run down an outlaw what has had two or three years in the swamp.  The catching him’s not much, but when ye have to slide the head off, all the pious in yer natur comes right up to make yer feelings feel kind a’ softish.  However, the law protects ye, and the game being only a nigger, different rules and things govern one’s feelings.”

Bengal interrupts by laconically insinuating-raising his moody face, and winking at Graspum-that it was all moonshine to talk about trouble in that kind of business; “It’s the very highest of exhilarating sport!” he concludes emphatically.