“Away!” said Ambrose in my ear. “Soft!... Now!”
We stole away on tip-toe in the shadow of the blasted trees.
“To the right,” said Ambrose in a whisper; and, as we came upon turfy ground, “Run, soft and swift, for your life!” said he.
And we set off on silent foot, hearkening, in fear and trembling.
CHAPTER XX.
THE PHANTOM VOICE.
The night was become darker; we took the darkest ways.
When we had run for about a quarter of an hour, and were come, panting, to the side of a wood, Ambrose stood and hearkened intently. Then he cast himself upon the ground, setting his hand to his heart.
“Do you suffer pain?” asked I.
“Ay,” said he, and groaned. “Do not speak to me,” added he, with a woful pang. His face was white and drawn, and he kept clutching at the prickly boughs of a bramble bush, tearing the flesh of his hand all bloody.
“What can I do?” said I. “Is there anything I can do?”