The boys were well satisfied to get away as quickly as possible.
They passed out of the dark cavern into the cool, sweet air of a spring morning, for the gray of dawn was beginning to dispel the darkness, and the birds were twittering from the thickets.
The phantom of a moon was in the sky, hanging low down and half-inverted as if spilling a spectral glamour over the ghostly mists which lay deep in Lost Creek Valley.
The sweet breath of flowers and of the woods was in the morning air, and from some cabin afar on the side of a distant mountain a wakeful watchdog barked till the crags reverberated with his clamoring.
"Thar's somethin' stirrin' at 'Bize Wiley's, ur his dorg wouldn't be kickin' up all that racket," observed Kate Kenyon. "He lives by ther road that comes over from Bildow's Crossroads. Folks comin' inter ther maountings from down below travel that way."
The boys looked around for the mute who had been guarding the mouth of the cave, but they saw nothing of him. He had slipped away into the bushes which grew thick all around the opening.
"Come on," said the girl, after seeming strangely interested in the barking of the dog. "We'll git ter ther old mill as soon as we kin. Foller me, an' be ready ter scrouch ther instant anything is seen."
Now that they could see her, she led them forward at a swift pace, which astonished them both. She did not run, but she seemed to skim over the ground, and she took advantage of every bit of cover till they entered some deep, lowland pines.
Through this strip of woods she swiftly led them, and they came near to Lost Creek, where it flowed down in the dismal valley.
There they found the ruins of an old mill, the moss-covered water-wheel forever silent, the roof sagging and falling in, the windows broken out by mischievous boys, the whole presenting a most melancholy and deserted appearance.