"What is it, Maurice?" she asked.
He got up and made a step forward.
"Lily," he said, "there is—there must be some one near us, a child lost on the moor, or forgotten by its mother. I hear it crying close to us. Say you hear it too. No, no, it is not the old sound. Don't think that. It can't be. There's a natural explanation of this—I'll swear there is. Come with me."
He pulled her hastily up and pressed forward some steps, stumbling among the bushes. Then he stopped, listening.
"It is somewhere just here, by us," he said. "I must see. Wait a moment. I'll strike a light."
He drew out his match-box and struck a match, protecting the tiny flame between his hands. Then he bent down, searching the uneven ground at their feet. The flame went out.
"I wish I had a lantern," he muttered.
"Maurice," Lily said, "let us go back to the inn."
"What! and leave this child out here in the night. I tell you there is a child crying near us."
He spoke almost angrily.