A poplar which had been torn down by the storm marked the spot where pretty Michal lay.
"I hear the tramp of horses' hoofs," murmured one of the musketeers in the ditch.
"What if it be the devil riding on a buck-goat?"
"Yes, indeed, who else would think of riding over the plains at such a time?"
"Look how the will-o'-the-wisps are dancing!" said a third, raising his head a little above the ditch.
From time to time, a reddish tongue of flame shot up from among the graves, casting a lurid glimmer on the angels praying on the monuments.
Then it seemed as if the deep notes of a horn were mingling with the howling of the storm. It sounded like a subterranean music. A shudder ran down the backs of the musketeers in the ditch and their teeth chattered.
"An accursed signal that!"
When the midnight rider reached the churchyard, he dismounted from his horse, bound it to an elderberry tree, and replied to the signal with a trumpet-blast of his own, whereupon a spectral flame shot up among the tombstones.
"Do you hear that? The devils are answering one another."