It was even as he had said. The light of the feeble moon hardly penetrated here, and the chill gloom and weird associations of the place began to take effect even upon their spirits. A fox barked in the further end of the covert, and ever and anon the doleful hooting of owls, both far and near, rang out upon the night, and now and again one of the ghostly birds would drop down almost into their faces, and skim along the ride on soft, noiseless pinions. The earthy moisture of the soil and undergrowth was as the odour of a charnel-house. Every now and then some sound--strange, mysterious, unaccountable--would cause them to stop short, and, with beating hearts, stand intently listening. Then they went on again. They had secured no spoil; the tree tops were too thick to see the roosting birds. At last, as luck would have it--whether for good or ill we say not--they managed to glimpse a single pheasant through a gap against the sky. All of a quiver with excitement, Haviland pressed the trigger, and missed. Still the dim black ball up aloft never moved. Again he took careful aim, and this time it did move, for it came down from its perch with a resounding flapping of wings, and hit the earth with a hard thud, still flapping. In a moment the Zulu boy was upon it and had wrung its neck, but not before it had uttered a couple of raucous croaks that seemed, to the over-strained sense of its slayers, loud enough to be heard for miles in the midnight stillness. "I'm glad we've got something at last, Cetchy," whispered Haviland, as he examined the dead bird. "We'll have to be contented with it, though, for time's up. Come along, we must get back now." Bearing off their spoil in triumph, they had gained the centre of the wood--the spot, in fact, where the old tragedy had occurred, and close to that whereon they had so badly frightened the keeper. Suddenly Haviland felt a hand on his arm, heard a brief whisper: "Stop! Something moving."