it over sufficiently to see the face.  The countenance of a negro in death seldom appears natural, and under that faint light, no revealed feature struck me, at first, as familiar.  Then, all at once, I knew him, unable to wholly repress a cry of startled surprise, as I stared down into the upturned face—­the dead man, evidently murdered, shot treacherously from behind, was Free Pete.  I sprang to my feet, gazing about blindly into the dim woods, my mind for the instant dazed by the importance of this discovery.  What could it mean?  How could it have happened?  By what means had he reached this spot in advance of us, and at whose hand had he fallen?  He could have been there only for one purpose, surely—­in an attempt to guide Eloise Beaucaire and the quadroon Delia.  Then what had become of the women?  Where were they now?

I stumbled backward to the support of the log, unable to answer any one of these questions, remembering only in that moment that I must tell Rene the truth.  Her eyes already were upon me, exhibiting her fright and perplexity, her knowledge that I had viewed something of horror.  She could keep silent no longer.

“Tell me—­please,” she begged.  “Is the man dead?  Who is he, do you know?”

“Yes,” I replied desperately.  “He is dead, and I recognize his face.  He is the negro Pete, and has been killed, shot from behind.  I cannot understand how it has happened.”

“Pete,” she echoed, grasping at the log to keep erect, her eyes on that dimly revealed figure in the leaves.  “Free Pete, Carlton’s Pete?  How—­how could he have got here?  Then—­then the others must have been with him.  What has become of them?”

“It is all mystery; the only way to solve it is for us to go on.  It can do no one any good to stand here, staring at this dead body.  When we reach the cabin we may learn what has occurred.  Go on ahead, Sam, and we will follow—­don’t be afraid, boy; it is not the dead who hurt us.”

She clung tightly to me, shrinking past the motionless figure.  She was not sobbing; her eyes were dry, yet every movement, each glance, exhibited her depth of horror.  I drew her closer, thoughtless of what she was, my heart yearning to speak words of comfort, yet realizing there was nothing left me to say.  I could almost feel the full intensity of her struggle for self-control, the effort she was making to conquer a desire to give way.  She must have known this, for once she spoke.

“Do not mind me,” she said, pausing before the utterance of each word to steady her voice.  “I—­I am not going to break down.  It—­it is the suddenness—­the shock.  I—­I shall be strong again, in a minute.”

“You must be,” I whispered, “for their lives may depend on us.”

It was a short path before us and became more clearly defined as we advanced.  A sharp turn brought us into full view of the cabin, which stood in a small opening, built against the sidehill, and so overhung with trees as to be invisible, except from the direction of our approach.  We could see only the side wall, which contained one open window, and was a one-room affair, low and flat-roofed, built of logs.  Its outward appearance was peaceful enough, and the swift beat of my pulse quieted as I took rapid survey of the surroundings.