The winter passed away, and sweet spring began to paint the ground with the greenery of grass, and the many and varied colours of beautiful wild-flowers.
Barclay was not sorry, for often in the dreary winter nights he used to lie in his little bed, finding it impossible to sleep while the storm-winds howled and “howthered” around his strange dwelling, and often shook it to its very foundations.
Barclay was a trifle superstitious, and the most appalling noises used to be heard aloft—shrieks and groans and moans.
He could not explain the nature of them. It might really be ghosts, he thought, and trembled a little. But on calmer nights nothing was heard except the mournful cry of the great white owl, who had not given up her abode, seeming to have perfect confidence in Antonio as well as in Barclay Stuart.
One fine day, when the buds were green on the trees, and bird-song was heard in every bush, Antonio told Barclay that he was going on a little cruise as far as London, and that he might not be back for a day or two.
The old windmill was locked up therefore, and for a whole week nothing was heard of the mysterious and weird little captain.
But behold one fine morning——
No, on second thoughts, I’ll tell you what did happen in next chapter.
CHAPTER IX
“THE MORN WAS FAIR, THE SKY WAS CLEAR, NO BREATH CAME O’ER THE SEA”
These are the first two lines of that grand old seasong, “The Rose of Allandale,” but they also make a very good commencement to this chapter of mine.