IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE 229

down the river-wind—a long, thin ery, like the wavering
screech of an owl—a shrill, high, ugly sound; the lights
began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather
into one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of
something moving in the path.

Where the moonlight lay it seudded like the shadow of
a windy cloud, now lost to sight, now seen again. Out
of the shadow came a man, with hands outstretched and
cap awry, running asifhe weremad. Ashe ran he looked
from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear.
He was panting hard.

When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on
a step or two, went back, stood hesitating there, clenching
his hands in the empty wind, listening; fer the mist was
grown so thick that he could scarcely see.

But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way,
catching the wind in his nervous hands, and turning
about in a little space like an animal in a cage, over the
hedge through the apple-boughs a boy’s clear voice rose
suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of
fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt.

Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear,
high voice, turned swiftly to it, crying out, “ The Skylark !
Zooks! It is the place!” and ran through the fog to
where the lantern glimmered through the hedge. The
light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale
as a ghost. “What, there, within! What, there!” he
panted. “Shakspere! Jonson! Any one!”

The song stopped short.