“Too late, my bird; I will look.”
And he advanced.
The crackling sound made by his thick-nailed boots among the furze bushes did not prevent his hearing the noise in the house, which rose and fell with the continuousness and the calm accent of a dialogue.
A moment afterwards the boy added:
“Besides, it is only fools who believe in spirits.”
Insolence in the face of danger rallies the cowardly, and inspirits them to go on.
The two Torteval lads resumed their march, quickening their steps behind the caulker’s apprentice.
The haunted house seemed to them to grow larger before their eyes. This optical illusion of fear is founded in reality. The house did indeed grow larger, for they were coming nearer to it.
Meanwhile the voices in the house took a tone more and more distinct. The children listened. The ear, too, has its power of exaggerating. It was different to a murmur, more than a whispering, less than an uproar. Now and then one or two words, clearly articulated, could be caught. These words, impossible to be understood, sounded strangely. The boys stopped and listened; then went forward again.
“It’s the ghosts talking,” said the caulker’s apprentice; “but I don’t believe in ghosts.”