The soft murmur which seems to reach us when a sea-shell is held to
the ear filled the air. It was the voice of the night--the sighing
of the scarcely moving wind among the multitudinous branches, the
restless movements of myriads of trees--the soft embrace of millions
of leaves, which, like the great ocean itself, even when the air is
pulseless, is never at rest.

Jack Carleton had spent too many days and nights in the woods to be
greatly impressed with the solemnity and grandeur of his
surroundings. That which would have awed his soul, if noted for the
first time, had lost the power to do so from its familiarity; but
while in the attitude of listening, he became conscious of another
sound which did not belong to the vast forest, the throbbing air,
nor the gathering darkness.




CHAPTER III

ON THE BANK OF THE MISSISSIPPI


That which reached the ears of Jack Carleton, while he stood in the
woods, silent and listening, was a peculiar swashing noise, which
continued a few seconds, followed by the same space of silence--the
intervals being as regular as the ticking of a huge pendulum.
Accompanying the sound was another, a soft, almost inaudible flow,
such as one hears when standing on the bank of a vast stream of
water.