“Shiver my timbers, lass!” cries I, “if you’re that frightened of the ghost, dash me if I don’t go with ye!”
This was just what this Jezebel wanted.
We walked together through the village of Glanwern, and I looked up anxiously at the windows of Miller Howell’s house, if perchance, indeed, I might catch a glimpse of Rhoda. As we approached, I fancied I saw her face in the top garret window. Perhaps I didn’t. Anyhow, it wasn’t visible when we passed.
We trudged on slowly through the silence of that mountainous district, our path lying through clefts and brushwood, till at length the black Clwm Rock towered in front of us, like a hideous monster, in the moonlight.
Suddenly I felt my arm gripped. The feeling, my lads—I give you the word of honour of an old sailor,—was so strange, that I imagined Evan Dhu had arrested me. Yes, indeed! It startled me. But I was in error. It was not Evan Dhu. It was the false girl, Gwendoline Thomas.
“Ugh!” gasped she, as if she were terrified to hear the sound of her own voice,—“ugh! I saw him, dear Hugh! Yes, indeed.”
“What?—who?” I asked.
“Hush—hush!” she whispered. “Speak not another word! We are in peril! He will kill us!”
“Don’t be a fool, Gwen!” says I, unceremonious-like, for she was clinging to me quite desperate.
“Silence,” she whispers, “or you’ll provoke him! I tell you he is watching me! There—there!”—a-pointing with her hand at the rock.