But then his natural stubbornness asserted itself. Should a wild night drive him out of his own mill—when the law couldn't? He turned resolutely and went slowly back. Nor did he pause on the main floor, but started up the first flight of stairs.
Another shriek of the wind, that rattled the loose window panes on the floor above, as though by a hundred unseen hands. The colonel crouched down on the stairs for a moment—and then, oh, what a hideous sound was that!
Somewhere, from the vague spaces of the upper part of the mill, there was wafted down to him such a noise as he had never heard; it squeaked and it thrummed; it moaned deep, and it wailed with an unearthly, piercing sound. There was the sorrow and the agony of a thousand voices in it. It blended now with the wind, and added to the cry of that; again it rose above the wind, and pierced the colonel's very soul.
Colonel Witham, clutching his lantern with desperation, fairly slid down the stairs, his legs wabbling weakly as he tried to stay himself. He landed in a heap at the foot. Then, rising with a mighty effort, he fled from the mill, up the road to the Half Way House.
Some moments later, seven boys, shaking with laughter, emerged from the garret room and resumed their search.
Colonel Witham had heard the strains of Henry Burns's horse-fiddle.
CHAPTER XVI
THE GOLDEN COIN LOST AGAIN
"Let's look, Tim! Let me see. Say, where'd you find it? Bring it here to the light."