His lips were parted over his teeth, the whites of his eyes glistened, he seemed gasping and speechless with fear.
"What's the matter, Cato ?" said Courtland glancing instinctively at the ground beneath.

"Speak, man!--have you been bitten ?" The word seemed to wring an agonized cry from the miserable man.
"Bitten! No; but don't you hear 'em coming, sah! God Almighty! don't you hear dat ?" "What ?" "De dogs! de houns!--DE BLOODHOUNS! Dey've set 'em loose on me!" It was true! A faint baying in the distance was now distinctly audible to Courtland.

He knew now plainly the full, cruel purport of the leader's speech,--those who could go anywhere were tracking their game! Every trace of manhood had vanished from the negro's cowering frame.
Courtland laid his hand assuringly, appealingly, and then savagely on his shoulder.
"Come! Enough of this! I am here, and will stand by you, whatever comes.
These dogs are no more to be feared than the others.

Rouse yourself, man, and at least help ME make a fight of it." "No! no!" screamed the terrified man.

"Lemme go! Lemme go back to de Massas! Tell 'em I'll come! Tell 'em to call de houns off me, and I'll go quiet! Lemme go!" He struggled violently in his companion's grasp.
In all Courtland's self-control, habits of coolness, and discipline, it is to be feared there was still something of the old Berserker temper.
His face was white, his eyes blazed in the darkness; only his voice kept that level distinctness which made it for a moment more terrible than even the baying of the tracking hounds to the negro's ear.