From this I was suddenly aroused by the clink of iron and the snort of a horse.

Wondering, I lifted my eyes, but the bushes were very dense, and I could see nothing.  But, in a little, borne upon the gentle wind, came the sound of a voice, low and soft and very sweet —­whose rich tones there was no mistaking—­followed, almost immediately, by another—­deeper, gruffer—­the voice of a man.

With a bound, I was upon my feet, and had, somehow, crossed the brook, but, even so, I was too late; there was the crack of a whip, followed by the muffled thud of a horse’s hoofs, which died quickly away, and was lost in the stir of leaves.

I ground my teeth, and cursed that fate which seemed determined that I should not meet this man face to face—­this man whose back I had seen but once—­a broad-shouldered back clad in a blue coat.

I stood where I was, dumb and rigid, staring straight before me, and once again a tremor passed over me, that came and went, growing stronger and stronger, and, once again, in my head was the thud, thud, thud of the hammer.

      “’In Scarlet town, where I was born,
        There was a fair maid dwellin’,
        Made every youth cry Well-a-way! 
        Her name was Barbara Allen.’”

She was approaching by that leafy path that wound its way along beside the brook, and there came upon me a physical nausea, and ever the thud of the hammer grew more maddening.

      “’All in the merry month of May,
        When green buds they were swellin’,
        Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
        For love of Barbara Allen.’”

Now, as she ended the verse, she came out into the open, and saw me, and, seeing me, looked deliberately over my head, and went on singing, while I—­stood shivering: 

       “’So, slowly, slowly rase she up
        And slowly she came nigh him,
        And when she drew the curtain by—­
        “Young man, I think you’re dyin’!"’”

And suddenly the trees and bushes swung giddily round—­the grass swayed beneath my feet—­and Charmian was beside me with her arm about my shoulders; but I pusbed her from me, and leaned against a tree near by, and hearkened to the hammer in my brain.

“Why—­Peter!” said she.  “Oh—­Peter!”

“Please, Charmian,” said I, speaking between the hammer-strokes, “do not—­touch me again—­it is—­too soon after—­”

“What do you mean—­Peter?  What do you mean?”

“He has—­been with you—­again—­”

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“I know of—­his visits—­if he was—­the same as—­last time—­in a —­blue coat—­no, don’t, don’t touch me.”

But she had sprung upon me, and caught me by the arms, and shook me in a grip so strong that, giddy as I was, I reeled and staggered like a drunken man.  And still her voice hissed:  “What do you mean?” And her voice and hands and eyes were strangely compelling.