Away they went then.
It was half-past eleven when they started, and twelve by watch when they found themselves in the forest.
“It is always hereabout they do be,” said John. “Just hereabouts, sir.”
Then they shouted, singly.
Then they shouted again—together this time; shouted and listened, but there was no answering call.
There was a rushing sound among the tall spruces, and a flap-flap-flapping of wings, as startled wild pigeons fled from their nests away out into the dreary depths of the forest.
There was the too-whit, to-who-oo-oo of an owl in the distance, but no other sound responded to their shouting.
“We’ll go straight on to the widow’s,” said the laird.
“Right, laird.”
So on they went again, often pausing to wave the bull’s-eye, to shout, and to listen.