Bumpus rubbed his eyes. Was he indeed really awake, or could this only be a part of a most realistic dream? Still, as he continued to look he saw the ghostly procession, for every figure was garbed in white, passing slowly along the serpentine path below.
Then the staring scout received another shock. His eyes, following back the line, rested on a group that seemed to be bearing a muffled form on a stretcher. With war in the land it was only natural for Bumpus to jump to the conclusion that this might be a wounded soldier, though hardly had he come to this conviction than he changed his mind.
These odd-appearing figures were not at all martial looking. Indeed, they were intoning some Latin hymn, he concluded, and the solemn character gave him his clue.
Yes, they must be monks, or members of some religious order that had escaped the general eviction when the French Government ousted most of their kind from the monasteries and convents. One of their number had died, perhaps sacrificing his life for France; and the Brothers were now engaged in giving him a midnight burial, after some rule of the order.
Bumpus felt a whole lot better after coming to this conclusion, though he still continued to keep his eyes glued on what was passing below, and did not mean to miss the least portion of the ceremony.
That rising and falling chant thrilled him strangely. He would never forget it as long as he lived. Still it was a relief to know that he was watching real flesh and blood people, and not visitors from the other world; for to tell the truth Bumpus had in the beginning suspected something of that sort. Indeed, considering the circumstances surrounding him, who could blame the boy for giving way to a deep-seated fear of the supernatural, half dormant in the hearts of every human being?
Now they were all in view. He counted just seventeen of the figures in white slowly moving along at stated intervals and holding the burning torches above their muffled heads.
The chant continued without a break, rising and falling again and again as they wound in and out among the bushes and the low-lying trees. Then Bumpus saw that they had evidently arrived at the spot where an open grave yawned, for the solemn procession no longer progressed, the figures gathering in a circle instead.
The torches formed a weird circle, and the deep-toned voices rose and fell with increased fervor. Though the watcher in the little window of the cell could not see all that was going on because of intervening branches, he knew that the body of the dead monk must have been lowered, for while the singing continued he could see men busily at work with shovels.
Bumpus was feeling somewhat easier in his mind. He knew now what manner of building he had come across. It was not a sanitarium, such as he had imagined, but a retreat of some kind, where benevolent Brothers had their home away from the cares and anxieties of the wicked world.