He followed Conseltine at a short distance, grumbling and cursing at every footstep of the way. From time to time Conseltine glanced back to assure himself that he was following. At last, soaked to the skin and splashed with mud, they came in view of Blake’s Hall. By this time the rain had almost ceased, but above the heights which rose seaward, beyond the flat valley in which the Hall lay, a great mass of vaporous cumuli, black and ominous, hung like a pall. Between this mass and the hill summits was a white space filled with smoke-like vapour, with gleams of shimmering silver. The silence had grown deeper, but when the slightest sound arose it travelled with startling distinctness for miles. Here and there, between the valley and the hills, were scattered cottages, bright patches of green pasture, and clumps of woodland. From these, at intervals, came the lowing of cattle, the crowing of a cock, the cry of a solitary human voice--each and all of which seemed to make the silence more intense. Down to the cottage, or hall, went the two men, only to find that they had come upon a useless errand. The door stood open, but when they entered there was no sign of anybody within. Tired with his long walk, Feagus threw himself on a stool, and, lighting his pipe, began smoking furiously, while Conseltine, returning to the door, searched the prospect in vain for any trace of the man he sought. A hundred yards from the threshold ran the river, a narrow and shallow stream in ordinary weather, but now broadened and deepened by the rain. It was boiling along at lightning speed, stained deep brown by the clay and peat of the moorlands whence it flowed. The stepping-stones at the ford, by which one gained the road to Castle Fitzpatrick, were covered, and to cross at all a man would have had to wade nearly waist-deep, at the risk of being carried away by the current. Like a man lost in thought, Conseltine walked over to the bank, and stood looking at the water. His mind was in as great a tumult as the raging stream. All his plans had failed, the whole world seemed leagued against him, and he was now full of a nameless dread, a horror of discovery, of punishment, and of the accompanying shame. Recent events had developed everything that was harsh and even savage in his nature. He had passed from one crime to another, till the blackest of all crimes cast its shadow on his soul; not that he felt any pity for the victim of his evil deed--his dominant feeling was one of fierce rage that the deed had been done in vain. How to act now he knew not. His only hope was in the silence of Peebles, whose regard for the honour of the family he well knew. His greatest fear was of Desmond, should the Squireen learn that his mother’s life had been attempted. He stood so long brooding there, that Feagus grew impatient, and came to the door to look after him. ‘What the devil are ye doing there?’ shouted the lawyer.