Nothing aggressive survived in Rawlins's voice.
"We can work well enough without it, sir."
Robinson snapped off the light. The darkness descended eagerly upon them. Above the noise of the spades in the soft earth Bobby heard indefinite stirrings. In the graveyard at such an hour the supernatural legend of the Cedars assumed an inescapable probability. Bobby wished for some way to stop the task on which they were engaged. He felt instinctively it would be better not to tamper with the mystery of Silas Blackburn's return.
Bobby grew rigid.
"There it is again," Graham breathed.
A low keening came from the thicket. It increased in power a trifle, then drifted into silence.
It wasn't the wind. It was like the moaning Bobby had heard at the stagnant lake that afternoon, like the cries Graham and he had suffered in the old room. Seeming at first to come from a distance, it achieved a sense of intimacy. It was like an escape of sorrow from the dismantled tombs.
Bobby turned to Katherine. He couldn't see her for the darkness. He reached out. She was not there.
"Katherine," he called softly.
Her hand stole into his. He had been afraid that the forest had taken her. Under the reassurance of her handclasp he tried to make himself believe there was actually a woman near by, if not Maria, some one who had a definite purpose there.