“What’s that in the middle?” I asked him, rather amused. For I was only half convinced, and the matter was of no consequence anyway. “Looks like a scar,” Brent said, feeling of it.
“And departing leave behind us,
Footprints in the dry cement
as Longfellow says.”
“The sands of time,” I said.
“Dry cement is better,” Brent countered.
“Listen!” said Tom, not in the least interested. “Listen to that, now. That’s a lynx all right. Hear it?”
In an interval between the boisterous cracklings of our blazing log a long wail, spent by the distance, could be heard far off. The wind was rising, making a strong draught in the chimney and rustling the trees outside. A flickering shadow on the dim masonry behind me danced up and disappeared with such suddenness that I was startled as if by some ghostly presence. As I returned my gaze to the merry fire a shadow crossed one of the windows. Startled, I fixed my gaze there, for the moving thing, whatever it was, had not the erratic, jumping quality of the shadows cast by the fire.
“Did you see that?” I asked, my voice instinctively falling to a whisper.
Tom had evidently seen it. Without saying a word he arose, went to the cupboard beside the chimney, took down a lantern and lighted it.