The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on the breast, dilating in every muscle. His face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers--a face by no means unhandsome, as regards mere _animal_ beauty--was convulsed with rage. And even as he started to his feet, he drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, the very picture of ferocity and desperation. While his right hand grasped the revolver, his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. Harry Royalton was dangerous. By his side was the short, stout figure of the Bloodhound, encased to his chin in a rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap over his prominent cheek-bones. His small gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows, glanced around with a look half desperation, half fear. And around the twain crowded the negroes, every hand grasping a knife; every face distorted with hatred; and old Royal, in his sleek blue dress and white cravat, prominent in that group of black visages and ragged forms. "They've got us! Judas Iscar-i-ot! It's a trap, my boy. We'll have to cut ourselves loose." "Back, you dogs!" shouted Harry, with the attitude and look of command. "The first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow him to ----!" There was a pause of a moment, ere the conflict began. Thirty uplifted knives, awaited only a look, a gesture, from old Royal. That gentleman, grinning until his white teeth were visible almost from ear to ear, said calmly--"Dis am a revivin' time, wid showers of grace! Some nigga shut dat door and make 'um fast." His words were instantly obeyed; one of the thirty closed the door and bolted it. "Now, massa Harry," said old Royal, grinning and showing the whites of his eyes, "dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin' your poor lost soul. How you back feel, ole boy? Want a leetle more o' de same sort, p'raps? S'pose you draw dat trigger? Jis try. Lor a massa, why dere's enough niggas here to eat you up widout pepper or salt." Harry laid his finger on the trigger and fired, at the same moment stepping suddenly backward, with the intention of planting himself against the wall. But he forgot the negroes behind him. As he fired, his heels were tripped up; his ball passed over old Royal's head. Harry was leveled to the floor, and in an instant old Royal's giant-like gripe was on his throat. And by his side, wriggling in the grasp of a huge negro, black as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the floor. Over and around these central figures gathered the remainder of the band, filling the den with their shouts-- "Death to the dam kidnappers!" "Yah-hah! Cut their dam throats!" Cries like these, interspersed with frightful howls, filled the place.