The voice again called “Over!” in a long plaintive musical cry.
“I must go to it,” said the friar, “or it will give us no peace. I would all my customers were of this world. I begin to think that I am Charon, and that this river is Styx.”
“I will go with you, friar,” said Robin.
“By my flask,” said the friar, “but you shall not.”
“Then I will,” said Marian.
“Still less,” said the friar, hurrying out of the cell. Robin and Marian followed: but the friar outstepped them, and pushed off his boat.
A white figure was visible under the shade of the opposite trees. The boat approached the shore, and the figure glided away. The friar returned.
They re-entered the cottage, and sat some time conversing on the phenomenon they had seen. The friar sipped his wine, and after a time, said:
“There is a tradition of a damsel who was drowned here some years ago. The tradition is——”
But the friar could not narrate a plain tale: he therefore cleared his throat, and sang with due solemnity, in a ghostly voice: