The deep, full tones came swelling upon the night wind, and fell with a
startling distinctness upon the ear.

"It's my hound, Mister Hare," said a low, coarse voice at the doorway,
and Seth Rawbon entered the cabin and closed the door behind him.




CHAPTER VI.


"It's my hound. Miss Weems, and I guess he's on the track of that
nigger, Jim."

Oriana started as if stung by a serpent, and rising to her feet, looked
upon the man with such an expression of contempt and loathing that the
ruffian's brow grew black with anger as he returned her gaze. Harold
confronted him, and spoke in a low, earnest tone, and between his
clenched teeth:

"If you are a man you will go at once. This persecution of a woman is
beneath even your brutality. If you have an account with me, I will not
balk you. But relieve her from the outrage of your presence here."

"I guess I'd better be around," replied Rawbon, coolly, as he leaned
against the door, with his hands in his coat pocket. "That dog is
dangerous when he's on the scent. You see, Miss Weems," he continued,
speaking over Harold's shoulder, "my niggers are plaguy troublesome,