“How now, Master Clarge, think you to frighten us with such tomfoolery?” exclaimed Will Rayner. “Get thee gone with thy mummery, or my sword shall teach thee a lesson not to make fools of thy betters.” Then, rushing forward, he attempted to beat the sword out of Wynne’s hand with his own, but to his amazement no clang of steel sounded as their weapons met. “Here’s at thee, Wynne,” cried the now enraged man; and suiting the action to the word, he made a deadly thrust at his opponent’s breast: the blade pierced the figure without any resistance, and struck the wall so violently that it was knocked out of his hand and rolled clattering on the floor. At the attack and thrust Wynne looked straight at his assailant, smiled sardonically, and--_slowly melted away_. * * * * * The guests stayed all night, sleeping where they best could, at least those whose eyelids had the power to close; while the more nervous scarce dare move from the room for fear of encountering one or other of their ghostly visitors. It was useless trying to search the wild country between Minehead and Dulverton while it was yet dark, but with the first grey light of a dull morning--Christmas Day--a party of eight gentlemen rode off in search of the missing Charles Benwell. Through Selworthy they silently rode, and turning to the left entered the lovely woods of Korner. Hills rose to a great height on either side of the valley up which they travelled; hills that seemed to touch--aye, and really did touch--the low-lying dun-coloured snow-clouds. There was a rough kind of path, which ran beside the brook--now swollen to a mountain torrent--but at best it was a mere cattle track, and was now fast becoming obliterated by the silently falling snow. The men rode on, scarcely speaking a word; the only sound that was heard was the roar of the turbulent torrent as it tore through its rocky bed on its way to the sea at Porlock. Presently they heard a horse neigh, and making at once towards the sound, quickly found poor Old Maggie grazing at the foot of Dunkery Beacon near the village of Stoke Pero. The snow was now falling so fast that not the sharpest eye could perceive the summit of the Beacon, which towered sixteen hundred feet above them. “Coup! coup! Maggie,” coaxingly cried Will Rayner, and the mare, whinnying, trotted to him. She was still saddled, and they found, as they feared to find, both upon the saddle and back, stains of blood. “Follow up, friends,” said Will, “as rapidly as possible, for if I mistake not, our poor friend lies not far away, and if we make not the best of our way, the snow may hide from us that which we seek.” They accordingly travelled on much quicker, and as they turned to cross the rustic bridge, at the foot of the hill from which Stoke Pero looks dreamily down, they found poor Benwell, lying on his face, dead, frozen stark and stiff, and partly covered with snow as with a winding-sheet.