Nearer and nearer they came.
It was no tread of many feet, but the dull heavy tramp of footsteps treading in unison together. It could not be they; they would not walk like that; so silently, so strangely.
Still Amy waited and watched—a heavy fear slowly creeping over her heart, and almost staying its beatings.
They came nearer still; yes, onwards they came round the turn of the drive as it swept up to the house; they passed it, and now their dark forms came slowly but surely on in the varying moonlight, with still that one dreadful tread. They were close by; passed under the window where she stood. What was that dark object they carried so fearfully, so carefully?
Amy moved away from the window, reached the door of the room, and stood in its deep shade like a statue of stone, every nerve strained, every pulse beating almost to bursting.
The servants had heard it then, or had they like Amy been watching? There stood the grey-headed butler; how ominous was his face, how grave the faces of those men near him, all waiting, all dreading—what?
Mr. Linchmore was the first to enter; a painful, anxious expression on his face.
"Thank God!" exclaimed the old butler, as he saw him; he had been anxious for his master, whom he had known as a boy. Were his fears then at rest? No; he was again about to speak, when,—
"Hush!" Mr. Linchmore said. Then to those behind, "tread softly," and again, "where is your mistress?"
He passed quickly on, almost brushing Amy's dress, as she stood so white and still in the shade, looking on, watching, noting everything.