At the earliest streak of dawn, the two parishes were roused, and long and careful search went on for days. But it was all in vain. Somewhere, in the deep seas, perhaps, the body of the master was at rest, but, after "life's fitful fever," did he, indeed "sleep well?"
Orvillière Farm was shut up. The finding of the dead gull, with a red wound in its white breast, proved conclusively that foul play and magic had been at work on the night of the storm. The servant and the housekeeper had been all the evening at a wedding feast, and when they returned at five o'clock next morning they found excited groups of people all about the farm, and they heard the story of the death of Dominic Le Mierre.
No one would dream of living henceforth at Orvillière. It was haunted. People who were compelled to pass through the valley at nightfall, saw flickering lights moving from window to window of the farm, and heard the sudden firing of a gun, and the plaintive cry of a wounded bird.
The wind sighed about the lonely spot. The moan of the sea penetrated to the solitary farm. But no human creature wept for the departed soul of the master of Orvillière. All shuddered at his end. Two prayed, in defiance of their scruples, for his wicked, wild soul. And these were only an old woman and her fisherman son.
CHAPTER IX.
