"Stop!"
The syllable was repeated from the woods close by them. Was it an echo? No; that was impossible; there was no echo in that place, and both men knew it. Besides, there was a different tone in the voice which seemed to ring out from the shadow of the pines—an accent of alarm and agony, unlike the peremptory cry which Sylv had uttered.
Dennis brought down his gun, instantly. "What's that?" he exclaimed, thoroughly unnerved. He felt as if some supernatural warning had been given him.
"It sounded," said Sylv, "like—" Here he checked himself, and stared across the road, trying to make out something among the trees.
Dennis turned in the same direction, and in a moment they had both moved thither, and were straining their eyes to discover the source of the sound. But their scrutiny was in vain: nothing appeared. It is true, they fancied a noise as of some one stirring, some one making a hasty retreat; but that might have been only the wind that came with stealthy swiftness from the ocean side and set all the murmurous branches in movement. Was there a figure flying through the piny arcade? Of that, also, they could not be sure; for the twilight had increased more and more, and darkness seemed to ooze through the air like a palpable exudation from the gummy trees.
The brothers faced half around and exchanged a peculiar glance that was tinged with awe. But Dennis fell to trembling.
"Hyar! Take it!" he said, in a voice of horror. "Take the gun, Sylv. I was crazy. What was I a-doin' just now? Oh, take it away from me; don't let me touch it!"
Sylv, on the point of complying, paused and said slowly: "No, Dennie, I won't take it. You didn't think what you were doing. I trust you."
Still shaking, Dennis looked at him with a dumb, bewildered gratitude.
"Come," said his brother, stepping again into the path.