A hundred yards further on they topped the crest of a hill; before them loomed a dense growth of trees which covered the slopes round about.
“It’s a fine kind of a place in summer, I should think,” said Scanlon, as they halted. “But of an autumn night when the air gets chill, the stars look far away, and there’s a pretty well settled belief that some queer things are about, it’s got its weak side. When I was staying in Canyon, I swore in as a deputy one night and started out into the hills with the magistrate to look for two lads who’d held up a train and got away with a bag full of money. That country was much wilder than this, and was further away from anywhere; but,” with a look at the gloomy wooded slopes, “believe me, it couldn’t compare with this for that uncertain feeling.”
As they stood gazing about, Ashton-Kirk’s head suddenly went up. He bent forward in the attitude of listening.
“What is it?” asked the big man.
“Hark!”
Far away, among the hills to the north, came a deep muttering, Scanlon clutched the crime specialist’s arm.
“That’s it!” he cried. “Listen to it lift. It’s the thing I heard roaring in the night.”
Low, growling, ominous at first, the sound grew in volume. Then it pealed like a mighty voice, rolling and echoing from hill to hill, finally subsiding and dying in the muttering with which it began.
“According to custom,” remarked Scanlon, in an uneasy tone, “Campe is now due to take his gun in hand and dash for the gate. And, if he does, they’ll do more than slash him. I’ve got an idea they’ll get him this time.”
As he said the last word, a shaft of brilliant light shot from the tower of Schwartzberg, and flashed to and fro across the countryside.