“Serves you right for your impertinence,” Prudence smiled over at the other.
“All the same I’m right.”
“Now keep quiet, or I’ll ride off again and leave you.”
“So you can if you like; this old mare I’m riding will take me home straight as the crow flies. What’s that?”
Out across the water came a long-drawn cry, so weird yet so human that the two girls stood still as statues, their faces blanching under their tan. The echoes seemed to die hard, growing slowly fainter and fainter. Alice’s eyes were widely staring and filled with an expression of horror. Prudence recovered herself first. She laughed a little constrainedly, however.
“We are in the region of Owl Hoot,” she said significantly. “That was one of the screech-owls.”
“O-oh! I thought it was some one being murdered.”
“We shall probably hear lots of strange cries; these regions are renowned for them. You’ve got the 167 kettle on your saddle, Al. Get all the things out whilst I gather some kindling and make a fire.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t leave me here alone for long,” Alice entreated. “I won’t mention George’s name again, sure.”
But Prudence had tethered her horse and set off on her quest. Alice, left alone, secured her horse and proceeded to disgorge the contents of her saddle-bags, and also those on her friend’s saddle. This done, she stepped down to the water’s edge, and, pushing the reedy vegetation on one side, filled the kettle. As she rose from her task she looked out down the wide inlet. The view was an enchanting one. The wooded banks opposite her rose abruptly from the water, overshadowing it, and throwing a black reflection upon its still surface. There was not a breath of air stirring; the world seemed wondrously still.