His head shook, he clutched at his breast, the hand which Roy tried to grasp trembled and was like ice. The two scouts saw that there was no use talking with him. The wretched creature was out of his senses. Huddling in a posture of abject terror he clutched the object which he held tighter against his breast, his head bowed and shaking, his whole form in convulsion. "Do you know where you are, Blythey?" Warde asked. "In the lower field--where they're making hay," Blythe answered. They tried no more at questioning him. "We want you to come with us, Blythey," Roy said. His voice was friendly, kindly, albeit he was himself disturbed and fearful. For neither of the boys knew what this pathetic, demon-haunted creature might do next. "We're your friends," Warde added. "Can't you get up and come with us--and go to bed. Don't you remember all about camp-fire, and Pee-wee, and all the fun we had? There isn't any voice now, it's gone away." But for all their kindness and resolve to help him, they felt certain qualms, both of conscience and of fear. The all too conclusive proof that he was a fugitive and that his hands and disordered brain were red with blood were strengthened by this uncanny adventure. To them the vision that he had seen, the voice that had lured him and brought him to this pitiful state were the face and voice of his victim--a woman. He had seen her, as such wretched, remorseful creatures ever do.... The big fan revolving silently above them in the brisk wind seemed almost to bespeak a kind of quiet satisfaction that it had brought his crime back home to him, and laid him low there upon that ghostly tower. It was not without a feeling of relief that the two scouts heard the cheering voices of their comrades approaching through the darkness. They had been aroused, no doubt, by the piercing scream of Blythe. "I'll go down," said Roy; "you stay up here, don't leave him alone." At the foot of the ladder the leader of the Silver Foxes waited for the members of the troop. It was good to see them approach. In the darkness he could just distinguish their hurriedly donned and incomplete raiment. He saw their looks of fear and inquiry, saw the almost panic agitation in Pee-wee's round face and sleepy eyes. "It's all right," Roy said, trying to control his jerky, nervous speech. "Where's Warde?" "Shh, he's all right--Blythe--Blythe is up there--he's in a kind of fit--he's crazy--he's the--he's the one, all right--he's Darrell--shh, _wait_--don't go up. Do you see this? It's one of those banshees Harry Donnelle told us about--the kind the soldiers used to put up in the windmills in Flanders. That's what's been making the noise. It sort of--you know--spoke to him--that's what I think...." If Roy had remembered some of the sprightly tales which their friend Lieutenant Donnelle had brought from France, he might have saved himself and his companion much fearful perplexity on that dark momentous night.