At length Algernon withdrew his hands, and exhibited features pale but calm. Drawing forth his pistols, he carefully examined their priming, and then replaced them in his belt. During this proceeding, he failed not to urge Ella to alter her design and remain, while he went forward; but finding her determined on keeping him company, he signified his readiness to proceed, and both started slowly down the hill together. They reached the ravine in safety, and advanced some twenty yards further, when suddenly there arose a terrific Indian yell, followed instantly by the sharp report of several fire-arms, a wild, piercing shriek, some two or three heavy groans, a rustling among the trees, and then by a stillness as deep and awfully solemn as that which pervades the narrow house appointed for all living. CHAPTER VII. THE OLD WOODSMAN AND HIS DOG. The sun was perhaps an hour above the mountain tops, when a solitary hunter, in the direction of the cane-brake, might have been seen shaping his course toward the hill whereon Algernon and Ella had so lately paused to contemplate the dawning day. Upon his shoulder rested a long rifle, and a dog of the Newfoundland species followed in his steps or trotted along by his side. In a few minutes he reached the place referred to; when the snuffling of his canine companion causing him to look down, his attention instantly became fixed upon the foot-prints of the horses which had passed there the day before, and particularly on the two that had repassed there so lately. "What is it, Caesar?" said he, addressing the brute. "Nothing wrong here, I reckon." Caesar, as if conscious of his master's language, raised his head, and looking down into the ravine, appeared to snuff the air; then darting forward, he was quickly lost among the branching cedars. Scarcely thirty seconds elapsed, ere a long, low howl came up from the valley; and starting like one suddenly surprised by some disagreeable occurrence, the hunter, with a cheek slightly blanched, hurried down the crooked path, muttering as he went, "Thar's something wrong, for sartin--for Caesar never lies." In less than a minute the hunter came in sight of his dog, which he found standing with his hind feet on the ground and his fore-paws resting on the carcass of a horse, that had apparently been dead but a short time. As Caesar perceived his master approach, he uttered another of those peculiar, long, low, mournful howls, which the superstitious not unfrequently interpret as omens of evil. "Good heavens!" exclaimed the hunter, as he came up; "thar's been foul play here, Caesar--foul play, for sartin. D'ye think, dog, it war Indians as done it?" The brute looked up into the speaker's face, with one of those expressions of intelligence or sagacity, which seem to speak what the tongue has not power to utter, and then wagging his tail, gave a sharp, fierce bark.