“They’ll only hold him with a firm grip, when he dismounts, and swim him safe back,” grumblingly returns Romescos.  “Now! old nig"-Romescos shouts at the top of his voice, directing himself to the old man-"just trot back here-come along!”

The old man shakes his head, and raises his hands, as if pleading for mercy.

“You won’t, eh?” returns the angry man, raising his rifle in an attitude of preparation.  Bengal reminds Romescos that his horse is not accustomed to firing from the saddle.

“I will larn him, then,” is the reply.

“Mas’r,” says Bob, putting out his hand and uncovering his bald head, “I can harm no white man.  Let me live where ’um is, and die where ’um is.”

“None o’ that ar kind o’ nigger talk;—­just put it back here, or ye’ll get a plug or two out o’ this long Bill.” (He points to his rifle.) “Ye’ll come down out of that-by heavens you will!”

“Wing him; don’t shoot the fool!” suggests Bengal, as the old man, pleading with his pursuers, winds his body half round the tree.  Tick! tick! went the cock of Romescos’ rifle; he levelled it to his eye,—­a sharp whistling report rung through the air, and the body of the old man, shot through the heart, lumbered to the earth, as a deadly shriek sounds high above the echoes over the distant landscape-"M’as’r in heaven take ’um and have mercy on ’um!” gurgles on the air:  his body writhes convulsively-the devouring dogs spring savagely upon the ration-all is over with the old slave!

Instantly with the report of the rifle, Romescos’ horse darts, vaults toward the oaks, halts suddenly, and, ere he has time to grasp the reins, throws him headlong against one of their trunks.  An oath escapes his lips as from the saddle he lifted; not a word more did he lisp, but sank on the ground a corpse.  His boon companion, forgetting the dogs in their banquet of flesh, quickly dismounts, seizes the body in his arms, the head hanging carelessly from the shoulders:  a few quivering shrugs, and all is over.  “Neck broken, and dead!” ejaculates the affrighted companion, resting the dead hunter’s back against his left knee, and with his right hand across the breast, moving the head to and fro as if to make sure life has left.

“Poor Anthony,—­it’s a bad end; but the state should bury him with honours; he ware the best ‘un at this kind o’ business the state ever had,” mutters Bengal, glancing revengefully toward the island, where his democratic dogs are busy in the work of destruction.  Then he stretches the lifeless body on the ground, crosses those hands full of blood and treachery, draws a handkerchief from his pocket, spreads it over the ghastly face fast discolouring, as the riderless horse, as if by instinct, bounds back to the spot and suddenly halts over his dead master, where he frets the ground with his hoof, and, with nostrils extended, scents along the body.  Having done this, as if in sorrow, he will rest on the ground beside him; slowly he lumbers his body down, his head and neck circled toward that of the lifeless ruffian on the ground.