"Who are you?" she called again.
Then with heavy thuds in the darkness and on the snow, some one approached. She trembled from head to foot, but advanced a step and stopped again. The footstep was passing her. She brought the light of the lantern full on the retreating figure.
It was the figure of a man. Going by hastily, he turned his head over his shoulder and she saw his face. It was the face of Paul, colorless, agitated, with flashing eyes.
Every drop of Greta's blood stood still.
"Paul!" she cried, thrilled and immovable.
There was an instant of unconsciousness. The earth reeled beneath her. When she came to herself she was standing alone in the lane, the lantern half buried in the snow at her feet.
Had it been all a dream?
She was but twenty yards from the house. The door of the porch stood open. Chilled with fear to the heart's core, she rushed in. No one was in the hall. Not a sound, but the faint mutter of voices in the kitchen.
She ran through the passage and threw open the kitchen door. The farm laborers were at supper, chatting, laughing, eating, smoking.
"Didn't you hear somebody in the house?" she cried.