“What do you think it was?” asks the Captain, also sotto voce.
“The scream o’ a female. I’m ’most sure ’twor that.”
“It certainly did seem a woman’s voice. In the direction of the Court, too!”
“Yes; it comed that way.”
“I’ve half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?”
“Gie the word, sir! I’m ready.”
The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman’s voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant “brattle,” of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird.
“Like as not,” says Jack, “’twor some o’ them sarvint girls screechin’ in play, fra havin’ had a drop too much to drink. There’s a Frenchy thing among ’em as wor gone nigh three sheets i’ the wind ’fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on.”
The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket.
But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants.