Presently the lean figure of a man is seen advancing from a thicket in the distance.  Rifle in hand he advances a few paces, leans against the trunk of a pine tree, relieves his shoulders of a well-filled haversack, and supports his arms on the stock of his weapon, the muzzle of which he sets in the ground.  He will wait the horsemen’s coming.  With lightning quickness the hounds start suddenly, prick up their ears, make a bound forward.  “Hold there!” exclaims Romescos, at the same time directing Bengal’s attention to the figure far away to the right.  His horse shies, an imprecation quickly follows; the dogs as suddenly obey the word, and crouch back to await another signal.

“Nothing, I reckon!” returns Bengal, coolly, as the figure in the distance is seen with smoking fusee lighting a cigar.

Romescos thinks he is a gentleman returning from hunting in the big swamp, to the north.  He has a kind of presentiment, nevertheless, that some lucky prize will turn up before sunset.

“Well, strangers, what luck to day?” enquires the hunter, as they run up their horses.  At the same time he gracefully raises a delicate hand, relieves his mouth of the cigar, twists a well-trimmed mustache, and lifts his hunting-cap from off his head, disclosing a finely-chiselled face.

“Not a shy!” replies Romescos, taking a cigar from his side pocket, and motioning his hand:  the hunter politely extends his habanna, with which he communicates a light to his own.  It is well nigh noon-day, and at the hunter’s invitation do they dismount, seat themselves at the foot of the tree, and regale with bread, cheese, and brandy, he draws from his haversack.

“Thought ye’d got game in that,” remarks Bengal, measuredly.  Ho has scoured the woods, but found little game of the kind he hunts.  “Our game is of a different species:  you, I take it, hunt niggers, I’m in search of birds.”

“Would have no objection to a stray deer or two!” is the reply, as he passes his horn and flask to Romescos, who helps himself to a dose of the liquid, which, he says, smacking his lips, is not bad to take.

“Especially when yer on a hunting excursion!” rejoins Bengal.

“Now,” says the gentleman hunter, quietly resuming his cigar, “as you do not hunt my game, nor I yours, I think I can give you a scent that may prove profitable.”

“Where away?” interrupts Bengal.  Romescos respects the stranger-he has dignity concealed beneath his hunting garb, which the quick eye recognised as it flashed upon him.  He gives Bengal a significant wink, the meaning of which he instinctively understands-"Don’t be rude,—­he belongs to one of the first families!”