While we were thus, a distant sound broke savagely upon our ears. The night had fallen very still, so still you could count the chirping crickets. A fringe of birches in the moonlight looked like a row of peering ghosts. The sudden sound that broke the stillness seemed at first to be some one calling out. It was coming nearer, though it came and went drearily. At times it was almost like a song. Occasionally it rose to a long mournful wail; after that there would be silence. Mistress Van Volkenberg stopped to listen. She stood so near me that I could have touched her with my hand. I could hear her breathe in long gasping breaths. “She must not come to-night,” I heard her mutter. “If I could only warn her back!” “I am at your service, madam.” “Hush,” she said. She stepped a little closer to me and continued: “It is Meg of the Hills, a poor crazy woman. But I love her. She used to be my mother’s servant.” “Is it not safe for her?” I asked. “Her wild ways anger my father,” was her simple answer. I needed no further explanation to know why she dreaded a meeting between the two. After five minutes, during which we listened in silence, Meg appeared at the edge of the wide stretch of turf that surrounded the house. She was still chanting her wild song, which was unlike any music I had ever fancied. Behind her, nosing her skirts, came the hound, Caesar, who had fled when I offered to touch him. I inquired again whether I should convey a warning message to her. “No,” answered my companion. “That would distress my father also. Let us wait.” The woman and the dog came nearer. They were about to pass us when the latter suddenly stopped and began to growl. “What is it, Meg?” said my companion in a soothing tone. Then she gripped my arm tight. Her fingers trembled with excitement. I looked around for the cause and saw that her father had stepped upon the terrace. Meantime Meg of the Hills had caught sight of us. She stopped singing. The light fell upon her angular face, full of lines and ridges. Her long white hair streamed like silver down her back. Suddenly she stretched a long, skinny finger at me. She threw back her head like a baying dog. And she wailed in a grewsome drone: “Fire and sleete and candle-light, And Christ receive your soul.” “Meg,” cried the patroon sharply, and in a moment was by her side. Mistress Van Volkenberg put her lips close to my ear. “That is a bad omen and they are superstitious here. Be wary of yourself to-night.” I gave full heed to what she said, for the scene was already telling upon my nerves. But what did it mean? My companion would not stop to explain her warning. The patroon disappeared round the corner of the house with his witless charge. I remained alone upon the terrace like a man awakened from a dream. Yet this time I knew that it was no dream.