CHAPTER VIII.
THE WAKING.
The carter was holding the curtain back and critically apostrophizing the thing within.
“Ay, he be sound enough. Reckon nought but the last trump’ll waken yon. Now, youngster, where may you live?”
I told him.
“Sure,” he said, “the old crazed mill?” Then I thought he muttered: “Well, ’tis one vermin the less,” but I was not sure and nothing mattered—nothing.
He asked me if I would like to ride with it inside. The mere suggestion was terror to me, and I stammered out that I would rather walk, for I had tried my best already and had given up hope.
So we set off slowly through the dumb, haunted twilight. Thoughts would not come to me in any definite form. I imagined the cathedral bells were ringing, till I found it was only a jangling in my brain, discordant and unearthly. People came toward us who on nearing were resolved into distorted rags of mist; voices croaked with laughter, and they were only the swung branches of trees.
Suddenly I heard an exclamation—real enough this time—and saw the carter run to the head of his team and stop them.
“Woa, then!” he cried, in a frightened voice; and then with terrified impatience: “Coom hither, marn; I tell ’ee. Don’t ’ee stand theer gawking at the air. Dang it, the ghost walks!” He stamped his heavy foot, seeing me motionless; then cried again: “Take thee foul burden out o’ the wain and dang me for a fool ever to have meddled wi’t!”
A gush of wondrous hope flooded my breast. I tore to the rear of the wagon, dashed back the curtain—and there was Modred sitting up and swaying feebly from side to side.