In the
frigid silence under the wintry moon, the motionless, recumbent poles,
stiffened, as it were, with sleep and cold, recalled the corpses of
the old cemetery. The young man cast but a rapid glance round the empty
space; there was not a creature, not a sound, no danger of being seen or
heard. The black patches at the further end caused him more anxiety, but
after a brief examination he plucked up courage and hurriedly crossed
the wood-yard.
As soon as he felt himself under cover he slackened his pace. He was now
in the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Here
his very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely crackled
under his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger,
sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealed
his gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except that the
moonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, then
streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness and
light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe the
calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the path,
and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form an
angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might be
coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stooped
down, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.
An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the
burial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a high
and slightly sloping seat.
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