“Perhaps he is close at hand after all. Let’s try,” cried Joe, and he uttered a long piercing hail, again and again, but with no other result than to raise the solemn echoes, which sounded awe-inspiring, and so startling, that the lad ceased, and gazed piteously at his companion.
“Feel scared, Joe?” said Gwyn at last.
Joe nodded.
“So do I. It’s very cowardly, of course, but the place is so creepy and strange.”
“Yes; let’s get back. We can’t do any more, can we?”
Gwyn made no reply, but stood with his brows knit, staring straight before him into the darkness beyond the dim halo cast by the lanthorn.
“Why don’t you speak? Say something,” cried Joe, half hysterically; but, though Gwyn’s lips moved, no sounds came. “Gwyn!” cried Joe again, “say something. What’s the good of us two being mates if we don’t try to help each other?”
“I was trying to help you,” said Gwyn at last, in a strange voice he hardly knew as his own; “but I was thinking so much I couldn’t speak—I couldn’t get out a word.”
“Well, think aloud. Keep talking, or I shall go mad.”
“With fright?” said Gwyn, slowly.