'Mark, that terrible night when your father and mine died'—. She paused. 'Well, Zita?' 'Then—before his death, I mean—before the death of my own dear daddy, and I can't say whether it was before or after yours was drowned—I heard such a strange, such an awful sound.' 'Where?' 'In the sky—above; like the barking of dogs. It was just as though a hunter was going by with his pack. Shall I tell you what I thought it? It was just as if the dogs had smelt the fox, and gave tongue. Was it not dreadful? I could see nothing; I could hear—that was all.' 'I think nothing of that,' said Mark. 'I know our fen-folk say it is the devils running after a human soul. They have snuffed it from the bottomless pit, then the Great Hunter of Souls opens the kennel door, and out they burst, yelping, snapping, panting, and come after it.' 'Oh, Mark!' 'But if the soul be very nimble, it runs before them, runs on the wind, swift as an arrow, and slips in at heaven's gate, and then the evil spirits yelp and bay and bark outside. But it is all fudge and nonsense. I believe that the sound comes from the wild geese.' 'I shall ever think of this. Oh, I hope I shall never hear that dreadful sound again. My dear father—no—he would certainly escape those hounds. They would never catch him. For him the Golden Gate would be opened, and the dogs be shut outside. He was so gentle, so kind, so true. Oh, I loved him so—so much!' And thereupon the brightness was gone out of the sunny little face, and it was bathed in tears. 'Put all this aside. Think no more of it.' 'They were in full pursuit when I heard them.' 'The geese? And you are a little goose if you think more of this.' 'Mark, may I never hear that sound again!' 'Or, if you do, Zita, may I be near you to laugh your fears away. No, not laugh—kiss them away, as I do now.' 'Mark! you _are_ a naughty boy! I did not think it of you.' The roses had come back, and the glow was returned, and in one cheek deeper than the other. CHAPTER XIII PIP BEAMISH 'Do go on and leave me alone,' said Zita. Then again the young man sped forward with the sledge, at full speed on his skates. There was a glow of something more than health—something more than the reaction produced by the fresh wind—in his cheeks. 'Here's a joke!' exclaimed Mark, stopping for a moment. 'I see quite a throng round Beamish's mill.' Again he went on. And Zita, looking in the direction he had indicated, saw that a considerable number of persons was collected, some on the banks, some on the ice, and as many as could be accommodated on the brick platform of a windmill. Without halting, Mark said, 'The paddle can't go because of the frost, but Pip Beamish's tongue can wag, and when it wags it is for mischief. He is a restless, dissatisfied rascal. We'll go and hear what he has to say.' Mark stayed the sledge when he reached the outer ring of the congregation that was gathered together about the mill.