An impenetrable swamp defended the head of the bayou which he skirted.  Doubling back as though he were going to retrace his steps to Belle Plain, finally he gained a position opposite the clearing which still showed remotely across the wide reach of sluggish water.  Here he dismounted and tied his horse, then as one tolerably familiar with the locality and its resources, he went down to the shore and launched a dugout which he found concealed in some bushes; entering it he pointed its blunt bow in the direction of the clearing opposite.  A growth of small timber was still standing along the water’s edge, but as he drew nearer, those betterments which the resident of that lonely spot had seen fit to make for his own convenience, came under his scrutiny; these consisted of a log cabin and several lesser sheds.  Landing and securing his dug-out by the simple expedient of dragging half its length out of the water, he advanced toward the cabin.  As he did so he saw two women at work heckling flax under an open shed.  They were the wife and daughter of George Hicks, his overseer’s brother.

“Morning, Mrs. Hicks,” he said, addressing himself to the mother, a hulking ruffian of a woman.

“Howdy, sir?” she answered.  Her daughter glanced indifferently in Ware’s direction.  She was a fine strapping girl, giving that sense of physical abundance which the planter admired.

“They’d better keep her out of Murrell’s way!” he thought; aloud he said, “Anybody with the captain?”

“Colonel Fentress is.”

“Humph!” muttered Ware.  He moved to the door of the cabin and pushing it open, entered the room where Murrell and Fentress were seated facing each other across the breakfast table.  The planter nodded curtly.  He had not seen Murrell since the murder, and the sight of him quickened the spirit of antagonism which he had been nursing.  “You roust a fellow out early enough!” he grumbled, rubbing his unshaven chin with the back of his hand.

“I was afraid you’d be gone somewhere.  Sit down—­here, between the colonel and me,” said Murrell.

“Well, what the devil do you want of me anyhow?” demanded the planter.

“How’s your sister, Tom?” inquired Murrell.

“I reckon she’s the way you’d expect her to be.”  Ware dropped his voice to a whisper.  Those women were just the other side of the logs, he could hear them at their work.

“Who’s at Belle Plain now?” continued Murrell.

“Bowen’s wife and daughter have stayed,” answered Ware, still in a whisper.

“For how long, Tom?  Do you know?”

“They were to go home after breakfast this morning; the daughter’s to come out again to-morrow and stay with Betty until she leaves.”

“What’s that you’re saying?” cried Murrell.

“She’s going back to North Carolina to those friends of hers; it’s no concern of mine, she does what she likes without consulting me.”  There was a brief pause during which Murrell scowled at the planter.