There were distant sounds—the snort of a horse where it was picketed, a low humming as if some sentry were cheering his dreary watch by recollections of an old west-country ditty, and then from a little distance there was the half-hissing, half-grating cry of a white owl, as it flapped along upon its downy, silent pinions, while, through the trees at the edge of the wood, there was a dull red light, which showed where the embers of the great oaken beams of the Hall sent forth their dying glow.
“Let’s go on,” whispered Fred, just as something came gliding along the edge of the wilderness, and as they moved it uttered a piercing screech, turned, and swept away.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Samson; but Fred’s hand was upon his lips, and they stood close together with throbbing hearts, wondering whether the two cries would alarm the nearest sentinel.
But they heard nothing, and as silently as possible stole in among the trees, it being impossible to make any selection of route.
“How them owls do chill one, like, in a unked place like this! ’Member that one as come out of the wood shed as we went in last winter? Always scares me.”
“I dare say it scares them more than it does us,” whispered back Fred. “Now don’t speak.”
“Right, sir.”
Fred led on, moving more by instinct than sight, and seeming to feel which was the way to the spot where they had left the injured man; but it was a long and arduous task, and not till after he had gone astray three times did he pause in perplexity.
“If I could get any idea of where the Hall lay, perhaps I could find him,” whispered Fred; “but we have turned about so, that I don’t know which way we are looking now.”
“More don’t I, sir; for aught I know we might be somewhere hundreds of miles away. It’s so plaguey dark.”