“It was nothing,” said he, peering into the darkness. He had himself heard steps distinctly, but he would not let her be alarmed if he could help it.
“There!” she caught fast hold of his arm and drew him close. The heavy steps were distinctly audible for a moment, and then stopped.
“Who goes there?” shouted Geoffrey, startling her with the sudden noise. His voice sounded hollow and dead in the vastness of the mighty hills. They listened: no answer.
“Let us go on quick,” she said. Kitty moved again, painfully; her rider glanced back.
“I am sure I saw something far off moving,” she whispered.
“Nothing but a hawthorn bush,” said Geoffrey; yet he had himself discerned a shadowy something. Margaret had heard of the shepherds’ stories of the weird shapes that haunted the desolate places on the Downs. Kitty, obeying her impulse, pushed on more rapidly; when they looked back again there was nothing. But almost suddenly the darkness increased; it seemed to thicken and fall on them. In a few moments it was so intensely black that they could barely see each other. With it came a strange sense of oppression—a difficulty of breathing. Her hand on his shoulder trembled; even the man felt a sense of something unusual, bent his brow, and steeled himself to meet it. With her other hand she covered her face. In that pitch-black darkness, that almost sulphurous air, it seemed as if a thunderbolt must fall. The mare stood still.
In a minute there came a rushing sound—a rumbling of the ground; it swept by on their left at a short distance. A faint “baa” told what it was. “A flock of sheep,” said Geoffrey. “They have leapt the hurdles.”
“They always do when the clouds come down,” said Margaret, recollecting what the shepherds said. “It will thunder.”
But it did not. The noise of the frightened flock grew less as they raced headlong away. Shortly afterwards the extreme blackness lifted a little. Presently something like a copse came indistinctly into view ahead. This roused Margaret’s fainting hope; it might be Moonlight Firs, and they advanced again slowly. After a short while Kitty stood stock-still and would not move, neither for word nor blow; she backed instead.
“There must be something there,” said Geoffrey, leaving the bridle and walking forward. His feet caught in some bushy heath; he went on his knees and felt. In a yard his hand slipped into space—there was a chasm; he drew it back, then put his hand again and took up some earth from the side. It was white; then, dimly, he saw a white wall as it were beneath. An old chalk-quarry. “Thank Heaven for Kitty’s instinct!” he muttered. “We should have walked into it.” He did not tell Margaret that it was a quarry; he said it was a steep place. She wanted to go on to the copse; with regret he noticed the weariness of her voice; she was tired. He led Kitty far on one side of the quarry, giving it a wide berth, and taking the line of the sheep, who had avoided the precipice more by luck than any sense they possess in that way. The extreme darkness had now passed; but the clouds remained, and it was gloomy. He walked slowly, thinking now of possible flint-pits. Suddenly Margaret drew rein, and slipped out of the saddle.