This did not, however, prove to be the case, for after a walk of about a couple of miles, through patches of woodland and along dells, where the men seemed as happy as a pack of schoolboys, a ridge was reached, from which the little streamlet could be seen; and making their way down to it, Hilary found that they were on the wrong side, a fact which necessitated wading, though he went over dry-shod, Tom Tully insisting upon carrying him upon his back.
Another couple of miles along the winding course brought them to the mill, where a heavy-looking man stood watching the unwonted appearance of a dozen well-armed sailors; but neither party spoke, and after a bit of a rest for the discussion of a few biscuits, Hilary prepared for his advance to the old hall.
They were just about to start when the heavy-looking man lounged up.
“Going by Rorley Place?” he said.
“Rorley Place?” said Hilary; “where’s that?”
“Yon old house,” was the reply. “Don’t go in; she’s harnted!”
“Oh! is she?” said Hilary.
“Ay, that she be,” said the man. “She’s been empty this hundred year; but you can see the lights shining in the windows of a night, and hear the groans down by the gate and by the little bridge over Rorley stream.”
“Thank you,” said Hilary, “we’ll take care. Now, my lads, forward. Now, Tom Tully, what’s the matter?”
“I’m a man as ’ll fight any man or any body any day,” said the big sailor; “but if we’re going again that there place I’m done. I can’t abide ghosts and them sort o’ things.”