And now, when every one had gone to bed, the old house had awakened, and he could hear it creaking and murmuring, as if each brick and board had found a restless tongue. Outside there were other voices, weaving thin, whistling tunes, which detached themselves from the low ground hum that never ceased. That flapping, leathery noise came from the wings of a bat. It was very low, but, while it lasted, it was loud enough to blot out completely this other ghostly sound moving in the air about him, now high up, now passing close to the ground, now receding, and again drawing near. And at last he could make out many voices singing together, the green, slender voices of the wood, and this is what they seemed to say: What is this coming that troubles our ancient peace With faint thrillings of spring, of music and joy? Who has found old-time power to awake, to release The spirits of earth? Who is this human boy―― He who would lead us to shake off old memories of grief, And a life that had wavered and sunk, like a failing well, Back in the darkness of earth, like the sap in the leaf That yellows and withers in autumn? What is the spell He has found? Ancient gods of dim woodland places, Rise from your long, sad sleep; ye spirits of water and land! Shake out the dead leaves from your hair; rise and unveil your faces. The frozen winter is past; the spring is at hand. Not these dull words certainly, but something of which they are but a weak and uncouth symbol, he heard; though whether the voices were within him or without he did not know. Pouncer, who had already retired to bed half a dozen times and made a great show of falling asleep, was secretly intrigued by this curious vigil of his master, and came again to the window. He, also, leaned over the sill, but there was really nothing to be seen. He gave a very small bark in order to scare away imaginary robbers should Grif be thinking of that; then returned to his slumbers, sleeping with eyes and mouth and nose, but with ears wide enough awake. A clock chimed midnight, and Grif, he knew not why, began to think of Mr. Bradley. He wondered if he were playing now in the church, and he could see him, in imagination, his wild silver hair floating loose in the starlight, while the organ sang and thundered. The idea appealed to him. If only he had been certain that Mr. Bradley was really there, he would have crept out of the house at once. The thought stirred in him a spirit of adventure which the plans of Edward, Jim, and the others, left cold. He was haunted by something vaguely sinister, something fantastic and a little mad which the organist’s appearance had suggested to him. What it was he could not tell, but that afternoon it had made him uneasy――a very little uneasy――without being actually afraid.