“I hope as you’m lookin’ sharp to the roads an’ the quay an’ Smugglers’ Lane as usual,” whispered Johnny to Robert Bluett. “Some long tongue be sure to blab this business; an’ if the Frenchman’s laying off, they might signal her in to-night, ’stead of to-morrow.” “Not so much as a sea-otter could go from sea to shore without one of my men would know it,” answered the other. “Then a great load be off my mind, I assure ’e.” Red Hill above Daleham was a sandstone bluff that sprang up near three hundred feet abruptly from the sea, and, save at low tides, deep water always ran beneath. Upon its head a rough tonsure of wind-worn pine trees circled the grey ruins of Stapledon manor-house, and inland therefrom extended the fishermen’s gardens and stretched two roads. One of these ways led to Daleham Church and the country; the other was that up which Parson Yates and his company now climbed from the village. “Here will we stand,” said the good man, “and should anything in the nature of a superhuman visitation occur, you must light your candle, Richard Trout, and you, Noah Collins, after I have lifted my voice the first time, must strike upon the bell thrice—for each Person of the Ever-blessed Trinity. And see no wax falls from the candle on to my book, boy.” They drew up outside the belt of fir and all endured half an hour of misery, for the snow, though slight, persisted and the air and earth were bitter cold. Presently, however, the snow thinned to scattered flakes, then stopped; a star stole out and touched the white carpet with silver. Then came the beat of the church clock telling ten, and, as if in answer, a sigh ran through the woods, and gloomy figures moved beneath the trees. Silent as a dream and darker than night itself against the snow, a black pageant crept from the forest, and crossed the open land. One tall figure, above man’s common stature, moved in front and, following him, came horses that drew a plumed hearse, while certain footmen moved orderly behind. Then did Dick Trout, with shaking blue fingers, strike tinder and make a flame, and Noah Collins prepared to beat a triple tattoo upon his bell. Only Mr. Yates himself unhappily failed at the critical pinch. “Give it ’em; give it to ’em, my dear soul, or they’ll be gone!” implored Mr. Cramphorn in frantic accents. But the little man had dropped his book from a numbed and shaking hand, and, by the time he had picked it up again, the ghostly funeral was sweeping along the church road, already half swallowed up by night. “I lacked the power of speech,” stuttered Mr. Yates. “I cannot deny it—the spirit of fear came upon me and I dropped my book.” “Give ’em a broadside coming back, your reverence—if ’tis true as they do come back,” suggested Bluett. Twenty minutes later a man approached by the road from the church, and Cramphorn eagerly enquired of him whether he had seen the funeral.