Then, sighing, he shook his head and whispered very softly: “But poor little La Violette—dear, sweet, little wild violet! How my heart bleeds for her! But I mustn’t think of her now. No—no! I must have but one thought in my mind—Amy!” He had reached the farther margin of the strip of woodland that skirted the river. The clearing was before him. The stars were shining brightly. By their faint radiance, he dimly discerned the house standing in the middle of the cleared space. But no welcoming light streamed from window or door. All was darkness—silence. His heart almost stood still; a sense of suffocation came over him. A thousand mad thoughts and fancies ran riot in his brain. He leaned heavily upon his rifle and shivered—though the evening air was warm. The red rim of the moon rose above the tree-tops beyond the clearing. Then, big and round, it floated upward and shed its gentle light upon the scene. But still Ross did not stir. He stood with his eyes riveted upon the cabin—now clearly outlined in the moonlight. To his sensitive ears, came the faint, faraway echo of laughter from the village above. It seemed to mock him, like the eerie voice of a departed spirit. Of a sudden, Duke tilted his nose aloft and howled mournfully. The sound startled Douglas and recalled him from his reverie. He glanced apprehensively into the surrounding shadows, as if expecting to see a ghost. A sense of utter loneliness such as he had never known took possession of him. The hound crept to his side and whimpered; and, in the woods beyond, a screech owl thrice repeated its petulant, mournful cry. Impatiently shaking himself, Ross muttered angrily: “Bah! I’m a nervous fool. I’ll know the worst—and at once.” Resolutely he strode toward the cabin door, a few rods away. On reaching it, he did not hesitate, but thundered loudly upon it, with his bare knuckles. The only answer he received was the hollow echo of his raps. He felt for the latchstring; and, finding it, gave it a vigorous pull. The door swung inward so suddenly that he recoiled a step, expecting some person to face him. But no one put in an appearance. The interior was in absolute darkness. A musty, disagreeable smell—the odor of a room long closed to air and sunlight—greeted his nostrils. Boldly he stepped over the sill and stood upon the puncheon floor. It creaked to his tread; his heavy footfalls rang out with startling distinctness. The house was empty—deserted!