They dashed down the hill and through the narrow path that crossed a piece of Mr. Sitz’s swamp land. Here the dogwood was budding and a few Judas-trees displayed a purple blush, as though a colored mist hung about them. In a few days the bushes would burst forth in full flower. Eve rode fast along the swamp path. It was narrow, and to have ventured three yards upon either side would have been to sink, horse and all, into the quagmire. This was a waste piece of the farm that her father hoped to drain at some time, but now it was only a covert for birds and frogs.
But suddenly, as the girl rode fast, she thought she heard a cry. She half checked her mount; but the sound was not repeated.
A minute later the gray mare was through the marsh-piece and out upon the field beyond. Eve intended circling around by Peveril Pond and so reach home again by another path; yet the mysterious cry she had heard back there in the swamp-piece kept returning to her mind.
Suppose it had been a real cry—a human cry—a cry for help?
The thought came back to her again and again. She was in sight of the pond, when she could stand it no longer, but pulled the mare about.
“Come, old girl! We’ve got to be sure of this,” cried Eve. “Back you go!”
Her mount cantered back again. They reached the edge of the swamp and Eve pulled the mare down to a walk. Stepping daintily, the steed followed the narrow path through the over-bushed swamp. One could not see a dozen feet on either hand, so tall were the bushes, and so thick—not even at the height Eve rode.
She halted her horse and called aloud:
“Ahoy! Hullo! Who called?”
No answer—for half a minute. The farmer’s daughter shouted again. Then she heard it again—a half-stifled cry—a cry that ended in a choking gasp and which chilled the blood in her veins and made her hold her own breath for a moment.