Rifle in hand he advances a few paces, leans
against the trunk of a pine tree, relieves his shoulders of a
well-filled haversack, and supports his arms on the stock of his
weapon, the muzzle of which he sets in the ground. He will wait the
horsemen's coming. With lightning quickness the hounds start
suddenly, prick up their ears, make a bound forward. "Hold there!"
exclaims Romescos, at the same time directing Bengal's attention to
the figure far away to the right. His horse shies, an imprecation
quickly follows; the dogs as suddenly obey the word, and crouch back
to await another signal.
"Nothing, I reckon!" returns Bengal, coolly, as the figure in the
distance is seen with smoking fusee lighting a cigar.
Romescos thinks he is a gentleman returning from hunting in the big
swamp, to the north. He has a kind of presentiment, nevertheless,
that some lucky prize will turn up before sunset.
"Well, strangers, what luck to day?" enquires the hunter, as they
run up their horses. At the same time he gracefully raises a
delicate hand, relieves his mouth of the cigar, twists a well-
trimmed mustache, and lifts his hunting-cap from off his head,
disclosing a finely-chiselled face.
"Not a shy!" replies Romescos, taking a cigar from his side pocket,
and motioning his hand: the hunter politely extends his habanna,
with which he communicates a light to his own. It is well nigh
noon-day, and at the hunter's invitation do they dismount, seat
themselves at the foot of the tree, and regale with bread, cheese,
and brandy, he draws from his haversack.
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