It was at this moment that the trapper determined to escape.

He had been left with the rest of his friends, under the surveillance of those who were assigned to the duty of watching the horses, and as they all continued mounted, the moment appeared favourable to his project.
The attention of the guards was drawn to the rock, and a heavy cloud driving above them at that instant, obscured even the feeble light which fell from the stars.

Leaning on the neck of his horse, the old man muttered-- "Where is my pup?
Where is it--Hector--where is it, dog ?" The hound caught the well-known sounds, and answered by a whine of friendship, which threatened to break out into one of his piercing howls.

The trapper was in the act of raising himself from this successful exploit, when he felt the hand of Weucha grasping his throat, as if determined to suppress his voice by the very unequivocal process of strangulation.

Profiting by the circumstance, he raised another low sound, as in the natural effort of breathing, which drew a second responsive cry from the faithful hound.