Night had advanced an hour or two, and the hunters were still awake, when a flickering flame shooting up, threw abroad its glare, and often changed its position. It was soon observed, and at once gave rise to excitement and to speculation.
“What can it be,” said Earth, “is it a spirit?”
He had scarcely spoken when another light began to dance in the air, then a third, and a fourth, flitting about, and changing position with the rapidity of thought.
“A four handed reel, by the powers above! Rolfe, Rolfe, it is all over,” and Earth, crouching upon the ground, sank overpowered with fear.
“What dost thou fear,” said Rolfe?
“Those spirits,” said Earth. “Hush, Rolfe; hush, or let us fly.”
“Nonsense,” said Rolfe, “they are merely ‘ignes fatui.’”
“Fat what, Rolfe?”
“Fat nothing;—they are what are termed grave lights, or jacks with their lanterns, produced in some measure by the decomposition of the dead animal matter.”
“No,” Rolfe, “it cannot be, see how they cross over, and leap up, and dart across, and then fly away;—they must be troubled spirits.”