They cry o’er vale and hill:
‘Beware!
Take care!
For death is cold and still.’”
These were the words of the song as given by that mysterious singer. They were ominous and full of warning.
“That certainly is a soulful little ditty,” observed Wiley. “It is so hilariously funny and laughable, don’t you know.”
Frank kicked aside the blazing brands of the fire with his foot and stamped them out, plunging the place into darkness.
“That’s right,” muttered Hodge. “They might pick us off any time by the firelight.”
A hollow, blood-chilling groan sounded near at hand, and Wiley nearly collapsed from sudden fright. The groan, however, came from the lips of Worthington, who was standing straight and silent as a tree, his arms stretched above his head in a singular manner.
“The stars are going to fall!” he declared, in a sibilant whisper that was strangely piercing. “Save yourselves! Hold them off! Hold them off! If they strike you, you will be destroyed!”