“Nay, Margaret,” said Gerard. “I fear not man's vengeance, thanks to Martin here and this thick wood: only Him I fear whose eye pierces the forest and reads the heart of man. If I but struck in self-defence, 'tis well; but if in hate, He may bid the avenger of blood follow me to Italy—to Italy? ay, to earth's remotest bounds.”
“Hush!” said Martin peevishly. “I can't hear for your chat.”
“What is it?”
“Do you hear nothing, Margaret; my ears are getting old.”
Margaret listened, and presently she heard a tuneful sound, like a single stroke upon a deep ringing bell. She described it so to Martin.
“Nay, I heard it,” said he.
“And so did I,” said Gerard; “it was beautiful. Ah! there it is again. How sweetly it blends with the air. It is a long way off. It is before us, is it not?”
“No, no! the echoes of this wood confound the ear of a stranger. It comes from the pine grove.”
“What! the one we passed?”
“Why, Martin, is this anything? You look pale.”