It was a pitch-dark night; a keen easterly wind whistled through the trees, while rain-laden, murky, ill-defined clouds drifted across the sky.
"Hist!" whispered Felgate, laying his hand on my arm.
Cautiously out of the doorway crept the figure of a man, his form muffled in a dark cloak, while a broad-brimmed hat was pulled down over his face. In his hand he carried a horn lantern, while the jangle of steel showed that the spades were to be brought to work. It was Increase Joyce.
With a stealthy tread he vanished down the road, hugging the buildings as if fearful of meeting a benighted stranger in the now deserted village.
Without a word we buckled on our swords and left the inn, following carefully in his track, pausing ever and anon to try and detect the sound of his footsteps.
At length we came to the confines of the castle grounds, where a thick belt of trees added to the already overpowering darkness. Groping blindly forward, stumbling over roots and colliding with unseen trunks of trees, we continued our quest, fearful lest the crackling of a dry twig or the clanking of our weapons should betray our whereabouts.
Just as we reached the far side of the wood the sudden gleam of a lantern being lit arrested us. Simultaneously we dropped on the dew-sodden grass and awaited further developments.
The ghostly light of the lantern flickered upon the grey walls of the tower, casting the long shadow of the man upon it in grotesque shapes. For a moment Joyce paused, then, turning towards us, began to walk, counting the paces as he went. At the thirty-second he set the lantern down, and, plying his spade with great vigour, sent the soil in all directions, some of the dirt falling close to us.
For over an hour he delved, till his laboured breathing showed how great his efforts were. Five feet down he dug, till the heap of soil hid him from us.
"Now!" whispered Felgate, laying his hand on his swordhilt.