As he neared the farm-house he saw that its lights were not yet extinguished, but showed cozily through the trees.
“I wish I had a little nerve,” he reflected. “If I had I should not linger outside the wicket.” He let his horse walk by the gate as the lights teased his eyes, glowing plainly for a moment and then disappearing; and he hummed to himself:
“‘Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see; A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.’”
“‘These wakeful eyes’--Frank Pollock, whose are they, I pray?” he reflected. “Songs are foolish things. I never saw one yet that really expressed my feeling. I wonder if Mr. Jack Balcomb is there with his sublime nerve. I shall have to punch his head at the earliest opportunity, bad luck to him! Or perhaps it is my young friend, Mr. Leighton, Bachelor of Laws, who is lingering there in the bower of beauty. If it be so, then may he remain forever a bachelor of laws and of all things visible and invisible. Get up, Ajax.”
The horse sprang to a gallop. Pollock had passed the line of fence that marked the boundaries of the Dameron house and turned and glanced back. As he settled again into the saddle something rustled oddly in the corn-field at his right. It was dim starlight and there was no wind stirring; yet directly at his right hand something was moving the corn.
“Mr. Dameron doesn’t take care of his fences. I’d better get that cow out for him.”
Pollock swung himself from the saddle and the horse stood perfectly quiet, while his master jumped the ditch at the side of the road and peered over the fence.
A voice rose suddenly, quite near at hand:
“‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves; We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’”
It was the low voice of a man singing to himself,--a quavering, senile voice.
Pollock climbed upon the stake-and-rider fence and watched and listened. Some one was walking through the corn with irregular step, chanting in a strained, high voice.
The charred stump of an old tree rose almost as high as the corn and presently, as Pollock watched and listened, the figure of the singer reached and clambered upon it. Pollock sprang down among the corn and crept closer. There was something weird and fascinating in the chant that continued to rise from the solitary figure on the stump. The outline of a man was now quite clearly defined,--an unquiet figure, that moved its arms fantastically, and once or twice, as the refrain ceased, it laughed in a harsh way.