“Me neither,” muttered his companion, as they descended to the hut. “Some one diggin’ for the Old Sir’s money? I give it up. Ain’t pic-nic weather, any rate, jibometer below. Not tellin’ fo’ks, but some loafin’ weather I may take a look there myself--invest things, kind of.” Without further incident their ten days drew to a close. Though they climbed the hill a second time, no light appeared on the island. Their speculation flagged, and soon Miles was to forget it, along with other trifles. They were returning from a day’s work below the hut, and had crossed a long bog or heath, where the pent-up water of some brook shone toward the sunset, a broad, pale mirror of green ice. On the upper side of this they had gained the road, which ran roundabout with the low, skirting alders, black against the west,--a belt of night, between the last daylight sinking vertically in the sky and the last daylight horizontally retreating along the ice. “Somebody comin’,” said Old-Hab suddenly. Both men paused and listened. They heard no bells, but in the extreme silence of twilight caught a faint jingle of trace-chains, and the frosty creak of runners, following Hab’s own runners in the ruts of a week ago. Some one drew slowly nearer, invisible in the black band of night, but moving as an obscure, watery reflection along the sallow ice, darkening the thin, inverted fringe of alders. The picture of that still approach, long afterward, became for Miles the symbol and essence of all misgiving. A white horse appeared, drawing a swaddled figure on a sled. “Hallo!” called the voice of Tony. He pulled up, and fixed them with a strange look, his eyebrows sharply contracted in the dusk. “Is that you?” His tone, though matter of fact, was subdued and changed. “Miles, old chap, I--They sent me after you.” “Has--has anything happened, Tony?” The sailor nodded soberly. “Your grandfather wants to see you. You’d better come along.” He hesitated, then fell back upon that homely phrase which trouble has consecrated. “He--he’s a very sick man, Miles. I’ll take you.” It seemed to Miles that all his life he had foreseen and known this moment in the dark woods. CHAPTER VI THE COUNCIL The house, as they plunged down the last hill at midnight, showed orange squares above and below,--the windows in both stories, lighted as for some rare festivity. The sight was unfamiliar and daunting. So, when the door opened, was the strange new dignity with which Ella admitted him and answered his unspoken question. “Asleep; restin’ quiet. Cap’n What’s-name here’ll take Quinn’s hoss home. Come get your supper, and then straight to bed.” [Illustration] He obeyed, as in a dream. In whispers, by the yellow lamplight, she forced him to eat and drink; then led the way upstairs. As they tiptoed past, the door of the sick-room stood ajar. Miles peeped in. A shawl curtained the bed from lamp and firelight, but even in deep shadow the sleeper’s face wore a sinister mask of alteration.