What had happened? What was to be done? Was it only fancy? Had she been dreaming, and was that cry of murder only a delusion, after all?
No, it could not be; for, just as she was beginning to think it was only the effect of fancy, she distinctly heard footsteps flying up the stairs—a light, fleet step that paused at her own door.
Sibyl's heart stood still. It was but for an instant; then the same piercing cry of "Murder!" rang through the lonely house once more; the quick, light footsteps flew down the long, winding staircase again, passed through the echoing hall below, and then the large, heavy front door was slammed to, with a violence that made the old house shake, and all was again profoundly still.
In one instant, all the wild, ghostly legends she had ever heard of the old mansion, rushed through Sibyl's mind. Heaven of heavens! could this be the spirit of some murdered victim, returning from its bloody grave, to seek for retribution on its murderer? Sibyl Campbell, naturally brave, was yet, as we know, superstitious, and the terror that mortal man could never have inspired, filled her very soul at the thought. Shaking as with an ague fit, for an instant she crouched upon the floor, her face hidden in her hands, while memory recalled the tale she had once heard, of a woman stabbed by one of her dark, fierce forefathers, in that very house, whose restless spirit (the legend ran) came when the storm was wildest, and the furious tempest at its height, from her troubled tomb amid the heaving waves, to denounce woe on her murderer and on his descendants.
How long she sat she knew not, but the sound of the old clock below, striking in deep, sonorous tones, that echoed startlingly through the silent house, one! two! three! recalled her once more to life.
That earthly sound brought her once more to herself. She raised her head and looked wildly around. Aunt Moll lay near her, breathing heavily, and sleeping the deep, dreamless, death-like sleep that seems peculiar to the children of Africa. The consciousness of companionship—even though that companion was but a poor, helpless old negress—brought renewed courage. Rising, and half ashamed of her superstitious fears, she walked to the window and looked out.
The storm had passed away and the moon was shining brightly, lighting up with her calm, pale radiance what had so lately been a scene of deepest darkness and wildest storm. Her eyes wandered over the island; all there was still and serene. From thence they strayed out over the boundless sea, and suddenly rested on an object that banished all fears of supernatural visitors, and brought with it a new alarm.
It was a boat—a boat that had evidently just put off from the isle, and was rapidly disappearing in the distance.
It held but two persons—she could see that. But what meant this midnight visit, in darkness and storm, to that lonely isle? What terrible deed, under cover of night and tempest, had been perpetrated this night?
She caught her breath quick and short; but now that she feared only earthly dangers and earthly foes, there came with this discovery a deep breath of relief. Some one might still be concealed in the house—some one who indulged in the popular belief that there was money concealed in it somewhere.