his shoulder.

"Come! Enough of this! I am here, and will stand by you, whatever comes.
These dogs are no more to be feared than the others. Rouse yourself,
man, and at least help ME make a fight of it."

"No! no!" screamed the terrified man. "Lemme go! Lemme go back to de
Massas! Tell 'em I'll come! Tell 'em to call de houns off me, and I'll
go quiet! Lemme go!" He struggled violently in his companion's grasp.

In all Courtland's self-control, habits of coolness, and discipline, it
is to be feared there was still something of the old Berserker temper.
His face was white, his eyes blazed in the darkness; only his voice kept
that level distinctness which made it for a moment more terrible than
even the baying of the tracking hounds to the negro's ear. "Cato," he
said, "attempt to run now, and, by God! I'll save the dogs the trouble
of grappling your living carcass! Come here! Up that tree with you!"
pointing to a swamp magnolia. "Don't move as long as I can stand here,
and when I'm down--but not till then--save yourself--the best you can."

He half helped, half dragged, the now passive African to the solitary
tree; as the bay of a single hound came nearer, the negro convulsively
scrambled from Courtland's knee and shoulder to the fork of branches a
dozen feet from the ground. Courtland drew his revolver, and, stepping
back a few yards into the open, awaited the attack.

It came unexpectedly from behind. A sudden yelp of panting cruelty and
frenzied anticipation at Courtland's back caused him to change front
quickly, and the dripping fangs and snaky boa-like neck of a gray weird
shadow passed him. With an awful supernaturalness of instinct, it kept