The countenance of a negro in death seldom appears natural, and under that faint light, no revealed feature struck me, at first, as familiar.

Then, all at once, I knew him, unable to wholly repress a cry of startled surprise, as I stared down into the upturned face--the dead man, evidently murdered, shot treacherously from behind, was Free Pete.

I sprang to my feet, gazing about blindly into the dim woods, my mind for the instant dazed by the importance of this discovery.

What could it mean?
How could it have happened?
By what means had he reached this spot in advance of us, and at whose hand had he fallen?
He could have been there only for one purpose, surely--in an attempt to guide Eloise Beaucaire and the quadroon Delia.

Then what had become of the women?
Where were they now?
I stumbled backward to the support of the log, unable to answer any one of these questions, remembering only in that moment that I must tell Rene the truth.