“Come ahead,” said Roy resolutely, “follow me. Not scared, are you?”
He ascended the narrow, metal ladder of the windmill, Warde following. Upon the top was a tiny platform, and here he turned on his flashlight. Crouched in a heap was their friend Blythe. He was in a state of frantic agitation, his whole form trembling like a leaf. His head was bowed; he clutched something in his two hands. From it dangled a cord. Several burned matches lay near him and wisps and little masses of woven straw littered the miniature aerial platform.
Roy turned his light above to that part of the superstructure which revolved with the wind, enabling the winged wheel to keep in favorable position for revolving. The moaning voice was very near now, within arm’s reach almost, and at that close range was divested of its ghostly suggestiveness.
“Look,” Roy whispered, directing his light upward. There upon the movable framework was something that looked like a cigar-box. It was so placed as always to catch the breeze from the revolving fan.
“I know what it is,” said Roy; “hold this light while I take it down.”
He seemed to know that there was no peace for that distracted, crouching figure, as long as the weird voice from that compact little mechanism was audible. He stood upon the framework and, reaching up, dislodged the harmless box. A last dying wail accompanied his act. Then the big winged fan revolved silently above them in the dark night.
“Blythey,” cried Roy gently; “look up. It’s just Warde and me. What’s the matter? Tell us, can’t you? What’s the trouble?”
“I’ve got her–I can see her–she called me–” was all Blythe could say. “Did you hear her call–loud? I knew–I came–no–no!” he fairly screamed, as Warde tried to lift his head and discover what he held. “I came back–back to life–I was dead–you would have buried me–can’t you see I’m alive–you–scouts–”
His head shook, he clutched at his breast, the hand which Roy tried to grasp trembled and was like ice. The two scouts saw that there was no use talking with him. The wretched creature was out of his senses. Huddling in a posture of abject terror he clutched the object which he held tighter against his breast, his head bowed and shaking, his whole form in convulsion.
“Do you know where you are, Blythey?” Warde asked.