They were now close by the Yews, out of which the wind came with a peculiar chill, as if it had been passing through a vault.  Mr. Bartram Lindsay stooped down, and whispered in Bill’s ear.  “Listen, my lad.  We can’t go down the lane with you, for we want to see the ghost, but we don’t want the ghost to see us.  Don’t be frightened, but go just as usual.  And mind—­when you see the white figure, point with your own arm towards the Church, and scream as loud as you like.  Can you do this?”

“Yes, Sir,” whispered Bill.

“Then off with you.  We shall creep quietly on behind the trees; and you shan’t be hurt, I promise you.”

Bill summoned his courage, and plunged into the shadows.  What could be the meaning of Mr. Lindsay’s strange orders?  Should he ever have courage to lift his arm towards the church in the face of that awful apparition of the murdered man?  And if he did, would the unquiet spirit take the hint, and go back into the grave, which Bill knew was at that very corner to which he must point?  Left alone, his terrors began to return; and he listened eagerly to see if, amid the ceaseless soughing of the wind among the long yew branches, he could hear the rustle of the young men’s footsteps as they crept behind.  But he could distinguish nothing.  The hish-wishing of the thin leaves was so incessant, the wind was so dexterous and tormenting in the tricks it played and the sounds it produced, that the whole place seemed alive with phantom rustlings and footsteps; and Bill felt as if Master Arthur was right, and that there was “no limit” to the number of ghosts!

At last he could see the end of the avenue.  There among the few last trees was the place where the ghost had appeared.  There beyond lay the white road, the churchyard corner, and the tall grey tomb-stone glimmering in the moonlight.  A few steps more, and slowly from among the yews came the ghost as before, and raised its long white arm.  Bill determined that, if he died for it, he would do as he had been told; and lifting his own hand he pointed towards the tomb-stone, and gave a shout.  As he pointed, the ghost turned round, and then—­rising from behind the tomb-stone, and gliding slowly to the edge of the wall, which separated the churchyard from the lower level of the road—­there appeared a sight so awful, that Bill’s shout merged into a prolonged scream of terror.

Truly Master Arthur’s anticipations of a “scenic effect” were amply realized.  The walls and buttresses of the old Church stood out dark against the sky; the white clouds sailed slowly by the moon, which reflected itself on the damp grass, and shone upon the flat wet tomb-stones till they looked like pieces of water.  It was not less bright upon the upright ones, upon quaint crosses, short headstones, and upon the huge ungainly memorial of the murdered Ephraim Garnett.  But the sight on which it shone that night was the figure now standing by