"We do not think so," she says coldly; and there the matter ends.
It is getting dark as the little party—Honor, her two brothers, and young Jack Delorme—turn in at the gates of Donaghmore. They have been talking and laughing merrily; Honor is in good spirits to-night, or pretends to be; but as they pass inside the gate a silence falls upon them.
Launce is walking on the grass, well under the trees, Jack Delorme in the very middle of the gravel path, swinging a light stick, while Honor and Horace are a little in advance. As they reach the ruins Jack stops.
"I wonder if the old abbot is above ground to-night, Launce," he says.
"It would be only polite of us to pay him a visit if he is."
As the mocking words pass his lips, Honor turns to gaze at the gray pile, which looks very rugged in the dusk. She stops instantly.
Is she dreaming, she asks herself with a gasp of surprise, or is that a shape moving slowly between her and the doorless space that leads into the old quadrangle?
Horace sees it at the same instant; and the solo he is whistling—"My Queen"—with variations more or less ear-piercing, not to say distracting, dies away on his lips. He is little better than a lad, and his scorn of the supernatural is not by any means real.
"Oh, Honor," he exclaims, drawing close to her, "what can it be? Don't you see something over there?"
"It is a shadow of some branch, dear; it can be nothing else! Wait and see if the others notice it."
"Honor, I dare not stay!" the boy says nervously. "It is cowardly of me, I know, but there is a terror on me, and I—oh, what is that?"