About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he had come. The road to Jerry Rook's house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed through the well-known glade--a better crossing of Caney Creek having caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing. The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook's house, and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town. With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing him so soon back. On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies, but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob. There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied! An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree--a strange lurid light shining in his eyes. All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for, almost at the same instant, he heard the "spang" of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him. It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself. Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the skin. Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous vapour. He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must still be near, stealing off among the trees. Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen. For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer's bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees. It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin! Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.