We had not gone above half a mile when Grûl stopped, and bent his mad head to listen. Such an attitude of listening I had never seen before. The feathers and stalks in his cap seemed to lean forward like a horse's ears; his hair and beard took on a like inclination of intentness; even the grim little scarlet head upon his staff seemed to listen with its master. And Marc did as Grûl did. Then came a sound as of a woman weeping, very close at hand. Grûl motioned us to pass him, and creep forward. We did so, lying down and moving as softly as lizards. But I turned to see what our mysterious guide was doing—and lo, he was gone. He might have faded into a summer exhalation, so complete and silent was his exit.
This was too much. Only my experience as a woods-fighter, my instinctive caution, kept me from springing to my feet and calling him. But my suspicions were all on fire. I laid a firm hand of detention on Marc's arm, and whispered:—
"He's gone; 'tis a trap."
Marc looked at me in some wonder, and more impatience.
"No trap, Father; that's Grûl's way,"
"Well," I whispered, "we had better go another way, I'm thinking."
As I spoke, the woman's weeping came to us more distinctly. Something in the sound seemed to catch Marc's heart, and his face changed.
"'Tis all right, I tell you, Father!" came from between his teeth. "Come! come! Oh, I know the voice!" And he crept forward resolutely.
And, of course, I followed.