'It mon be a warnin', again said Robin, 'an' I wish I'd axed um haa soon I've to dee. Mebbee they'n a towd me.'
'I don't think they wod,' said Adam. 'I've olus heeard as they'r rare and vext if they'r spokken to. Theyn happen a done tha some lumberment if tha 'ad axed owt.'
'They could but a kilt mi,' replied Robin, adding, with that grim humour which so often accompanies despair, 'an' they're buryin' mi neaw, ar'nod they?' Then in a calm and firm voice he said—'I'm baan to ax 'em, come wod will. If tha 'rt freetent tha con goo on whoam.'
'Nay, nay,' said Adam warmly, 'I'm nooan scaret. If tha'rt for catechoizing um, I'll see th' end on it.'
Without further parley the men followed after and soon overtook the procession, which was just about to enter the old churchyard, the gates of which, like those of the lodge, swung open apparently of their own accord, and no sooner did Robin come up with the bearers than, in a trembling voice, he cried—
'Winnot yo' tell mi haaw lung I've to live?'
There was not any answer to this appeal, the little figure in front continuing to chant its refrain with even deepened mournfulness. Imagining that he was the leader of the band, Robin stretched out his hand and touched him. No sooner had he done this than, with startling suddenness, the whole cavalcade vanished, the gates banged to with a loud clang, deep darkness fell upon everything, the wind howled and moaned round the church and the tombstones in the graveyard, the branches creaked and groaned overhead, drops of rain pattered upon the leaves, mutterings of thunder were heard, and a lurid flash of lightning quivered down the gloomy avenue.
'I towd tha haa it ud be,' said Adam, and Robin simply answered—
'I'm no worse off than befooar. Let's mak' toart whoam; bud say nowt to aar fowk—it ud nobbut freeten th' wimmin.'
Before the two men reached the lodge gates a terrible storm burst over them, and through it they made their way to the distant village.