We were on the edge of a glade of the wood, at the watershed of a small burn that tinkled among its ice along the ridge from Tombreck, dividing close beside us, half of it going to Shira Glen and half to Aora. The tall trees stood over us like sentinels, coated with snow in every bough; a cool crisp air fanned me, with a hint in it, somehow, of a smouldering wood-fire. And I heard close at hand the call of an owl, as like the whimper of a child as ever howlet’s vesper mocked. Then to my other side, my plaid closer about me, and to my dreaming anew.
It was the same whimper waked me a second time, too prolonged to be an owl’s complaint, and I sat upright to listen. It was now the break of day. A faint grey light brooded among the tree-tops.
“John! John!” I said in my companion’s ear, shaking his shoulder.
He stood to his feet in a blink, wide awake, fumbling at his sword-belt as a man at hurried wakings on foreign shores.
“What is it?” he asked, in a whisper.
I had no need to answer him, for anew the child’s cry rose in the wood—sharp, petulant, hungry. It came from a thick clump of undergrowth to the left of our night’s lodging, not sixty yards away, and in the half-light of the morning had something of the eerie about it.
John Splendid crossed himself ere he had mind of his present creed, and “God sain us!” he whispered; “have we here banshee or warlock!”
“I’ll warrant we have no more than what we seek,” said I, with a joyous heart, putting my tartan about me more orderly, and running a hand through my hair.
“I’ve heard of unco uncanny things assume a wean’s cry in a wood,” said he, very dubious in his aspect.
I laughed at him, and “Come away, ‘ille,” I said; “here’s the Provost’s daughter.” And I was hurrying in the direction of the cry.