The girls were naturalists enough to remove their tree-trunk from the island, lest it should tempt marauding boys to go across and discover the moorhen's nest. They hoped the bird would return and sit again when they were out of the way. Each carefully carrying one of the precious eggs, they went on farther to explore the wood. They had only walked a short distance when Fauvette stopped suddenly.
"What's that queer squeaking noise?" she asked.
"Do you hear it too?" confirmed Raymonde.
The girls glanced round, and then looked at each other blankly. There was no doubt that the persistent chirruping and peeping came from the eggs in their hands.
"Oh, good night! The wretched things are hatching out!" gasped Raymonde.
They had indeed robbed the poor moorhen at the very moment when her chicks were in the process of hatching. Already there was a chip in the side of each egg, and a tiny bill began to protrude, the owner of which was raising a shrill clamour of welcome to the world. The girls laid them hastily down on the grass.
"Those won't be any use for the museum!" exploded Fauvette.
"I wonder if we ought to put them back," murmured Raymonde, decidedly conscience-stricken, though somewhat unwilling to venture again over the slippery tree-trunk.
She might perhaps have braved the crossing, and restored the eggs to the nest, but at that moment the rain, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came down in a torrent. She felt it had sealed the fate of the chicks.
"We'll just have to leave them here. It's like murder, but I can't help it. If we don't get back quick we shall be drenched."
As the girls turned to retrace their steps they became aware that they were not alone in the wood. Some distance among the bushes a dark coat and hat were plainly advancing in their direction. Undoubtedly somebody had been watching them and was following them. Wild visions of Black Jack and his "Limberlost" gang swam before their eyes, and with one accord they ran--ran anywhere, panic-stricken, bent only on escaping.
A voice shouted, and it added to their terror, and sent them hurrying on the faster. They imagined oaths and pistol-shots behind them. Such exciting scenes were all very well in the pages of _Freckles_, but they would be decidedly out of place in an English wood. When it came to the point, neither of them possessed the courage and presence of mind of the Swamp Angel.