University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
UNDER GROUND.

The difficult point to determine now was by what means he
could reach the island.

He looked up and down, endeavoring to find somewhere in the
thick brushwood skirting the banks some indication of a crossing-place,
knowing that if he could discover such, he would probably
find a boat not far off. There was none. The gum and laurel
lined the whole margin in an unbroken, mass, and before him
stretched the dark waters of the outlet to the lake, sullen, forbidding,
unfathomable, you would have said, so black did the surface
appear.

Harley hesitated only for a moment.

“It seems I am to swim!” he muttered. “Well, so be it.”

He buttoned his coat, already drenched by the storm, up to his
chin, leaped from the bank into the water, and wading where he
could, swimming where he was compelled to do so, reached the
island.

It was of small extent, and nearly overgrown with a dense mass
of reeds and water-plants. To even gain a foothold upon it was a
difficult matter; but Harley managed to land, and taking advantage
of a path apparently used by otters or muskrats, made his way
into the jungle.

It was rather crawling than walking. The reeds leaned across
the path, and shut out the struggling moonlight above. As he
went on, he heard weird noises, and the owls laughing in the depths
of the swamp were replied to by the whip-poor-wills, uttering from
moment to moment their melancholy cry. In spite of himself,
Harley was affected by his lugubrious surroundings. There was
something wild, weird, depressing, in this mournful marsh, where
nothing was heard but these nocturnal cries; and the cypresses, as
the moon flitted through the clouds, resembled goblins bending
above him and ready to seize him by the hair and carry him off.
He was naturally brave, but at the hiss of a snake, upon which he
trod, Harley shuddered.

Suddenly he emerged upon an open space, and saw before him,
beneath three cypress trees, a grassy knoll. In the side of this

knoll a glimmer was seen. Harley had said to Puccoon, “Under
the cypresses there is a knoll covered with sod. This sod is the
roof of a house. The house is that of the man of the swamp.”

The glimmering light in the side of the mound dispelled all
Harley's doubts, if he still had any. He had reached the end
of his journey, and now advanced toward the light with a firm
step.

Kneeling on one knee, he put aside some trailing vines, and
glanced through the aperture letting out the light. The interior
which met his glance was unique. It was a sort of den—you would
have said that of a wolf—scarcely eight feet in width and six feet in
height. A rude fireplace of stone was on one side, and there were
some brands blazing in it; they caused the light. On one side was
a rude bed, covered with a coarse blanket. In the middle was a
table and chair; a man was seated at the table, leaning his forehead
on his hands. From the appearance of his shoulders, it was
evident that he was sinewy and powerful. Leaning against the
table was a carbine.

Justin Harley took in these details at a glance, and a strange expression
came to his face—an expression of unmistakable joy. His
eyes glowed; his lips smiled; he drew a long breath, and rose to
his feet again, looking around him for some opening by which he
could make his way into this wild beast's den.

As he rose from his knees, the man, either weary of his position,
or hearing some noise, raised his head from his hands. This
head was a singular one. The hair was grizzled, although the
man did not appear to be more than forty, and the shaggy mass
nearly covered his eyes. The face was more singular still—
cunning, ferocious, the face of a wild beast, but an educated wild
beast, for there was in it a debased and brutalized intelligence.
The eyes glared, but it was the glare of intellect lowered to the
level of the brute.

The brute instinct was there, too, with the brute look. Something
seemed to tell this human wild beast that danger was near.
He rose, looked with a piercing glance toward the window, and
took two steps toward the low door of cypress wood, ordinarily
secured by a chain, which now hung down beside it.

Before he could reach the door, it opened, and Harley appeared
upon the threshold, erect, calm, holding in his hand a pistol, which
he placed upon the very breast of the man.

The occupant of the den unconsciously recoiled, as men will do
when a firearm is suddenly directed at their hearts, and Harley
took advantage of this movement to kick down the carbine, and
place his foot upon it.

The man was disarmed and at his mercy. He remained standing,
looking at Harley with sullen and ferocious eyes.

Harley returned this glance with one of calm and settled resolve.
Placing the cocked pistol upon the table, where he could
grasp it without moving, he drew from his breast-pocket a small
leather case, opened it, and took from it first a magnificent diamond
necklace, then a pair of bracelets set with rubies of great value,
and lastly, a breastpin of large size, blazing with precious stones.
These jewels, which were evidently of extraordinary value, he
deposited upon the table, where they sparkled in the light of the
pine-knot fire.

The man had looked at him whilst he was opening the case,
without indicating in his features any emotion but sullen surprise;
the sudden entrance of Harley seemed to have paralyzed every
other sentiment.

Harley pointed slowly to the table, looking at the man.

“Here are the jewels,” he said. “You see that I am willing that
you should have them, although you have no legal right to them.
And now we have finished with that. This is the happiest day of
my life, for I find that I did not kill you. Let us talk, sir: it may
lead to a better understanding between us.”