It was Davy Fayle's voice. The lad had not gone to the shambles. Realizing in some vague way that the errand was a subterfuge and that mischief was about, he had hidden himself at a little distance, and had seen when Dan and Ewan came out of the tent together. Creeping through the ling, and partly hidden by the dusk, he had followed the men until they had stopped on the Head. Then Davy had dropped to his knees. His ideas were obscure, he scarcely knew what was going on before his eyes, but he held his breath and watched and listened. At length, when the men threw off their clothes, the truth dawned on Davy; and though he tried to smother an exclamation, a cry of terror burst from his husky throat.
Dan and Ewan exchanged glances, and each seemed in one moment to read the other's thoughts. In another instant, at three quick strides, Dan had taken Davy by the shoulders.
"Promise," he said, "that you will never tell what you have seen."
Davy struggled to free himself, but his frantic efforts were useless. In Dan's grip he was held as in a vice.
"Let me go, Mastha Dan," the lad cried.
"Promise to hold your tongue," said Dan; "promise it, promise it."
"Let me go, will you? let me go," the lad shouted sullenly.
"Be quiet," said Dan.
"I won't be quiet," was the stubborn answer. "Help! help! help!" and the lad screamed lustily.
"Hold your tongue, or by G—"