The voice on the hill, loving and laughing, drew him like a syren's.
Was the man mad?
He was climbing up out of the creek on to the grass.
Kit swept the tamarisk aside, and waved at him furiously. The little man soothed him with mocking hand, and crept on.
Kit dared not shout; he could not catch the other. What could he do?
Watch and pray, with sickening heart.
"Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name."
Beautiful as it was, the boy could not listen. His soul was in his eyes, and his eyes on Knapp.
The little man was now behind the reader, and stalking him on hands and knees.
What on earth was he up to?
A horrible thought wrenched the boy's heart.