The fallen leaves lying thick in the forest path crackled like brown icicles as they crisped beneath the horse's hoofs, and Brent held a tight rein to prevent his slipping. Huntoon's pace was swifter and he was gaining rapidly; but before he had gone fifty rods, he stopped suddenly.
"My God!" he cried. His breath came in deep gasps, and the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead.
"Huntoon! Huntoon! Where are you?"
"Here."
"Where's your voice, man? I can scarce hear it. And how white you are, like one who has seen a ghost."
"I have. LOOK THERE!"
CHAPTER VIII
A CLUE
At Huntoon's exclamation, Giles Brent dashed forward still faster, and then he too stopped short and stood at gaze, for there in the centre of the blazed path lay the body of a dead priest, his cloak and cassock showing black against the whiteness around, his arms outstretched as if on a cross.