"Hold your tongue!" cried the doctor, so fiercely that Davy collapsed in scared silence, and gave his undivided attention to the trail of the lost ghost.

They led the way through the tangle to the stump where the specter had been enthroned. Some matches and a half-burned candle, dropped hastily upon the moss, testified to the correctness of their discovery. Then, taking the lantern, Tim led on through the dense underbrush, past black pools of water, over fallen logs, and back to the road again, whither they had fled from Sawed-Off's swift vengeance.

But the ghost had apparently vanished in true ghost fashion. Gilbert took the lantern and carefully went over the ground again. With the two boys close at his heels, he scrambled about, here and there, pushing through the cedars, clambering over rotten tree-trunks, and leaping pools of black water. They were soon deeper in the yielding swamp than was quite safe, and the leader was forced to suggest returning without their prize. He climbed upon a mossy stump, and swung his lantern in a circle for a last survey. The light flashed far into the wild, tangled wilderness, and revealed a white object hanging over a low cedar. Tim gave a whoop of joy and pounced upon it.

"It's him! It's Mr. Ghost!" he shouted jubilantly. The rustle of silk proclaimed that the specter still contained the wedding gown. The doctor glanced over it in the light of the lantern; it was apparently undamaged, except for a few spots of mud. To the boys' surprise, he rolled it up with great care and bundled it under his arm.

"Come, now, let's get back," he said, with a look of pleased relief.

"And look out where you jump. If either of you young Turks tumbles in, I'll leave you for the banshee, and serve you right!"

They were standing for a moment, looking for the best way to retrace their steps, when out of the black silence behind them there came a faint, far-off cry.

Tim clutched the doctor's coat. Davy turned white.

"Wha'--what's that?" they whispered together.

The three stood motionless, listening, and again the sound arose. It came from the far-off edge of the Drowned Lands, faint, and full of agony, like a human voice calling for help.

"The _banshee_!" whispered Tim in terror.

"Oh, Lord save us!" groaned Davy.

In spite of his concern, Gilbert laughed. "It's somebody caught in the mud, you young idiots!" he cried. "Listen!"

Once more the cry came floating out, terrible in its appeal. "Help, h-e-l-p!" it called faintly.

Davy gave a leap. "That's her! That's the banshee!" he gasped. "Come on! _Run_! It always calls folks like that--into the Drowned Lands--an' they never come back! _Run_!"

"Shut up, you fool!" cried Gilbert sharply. "Listen to me. You two get back to the road as quickly as you can. Come! I'll show you out with the light."

"Are--are you goin' after her?" whispered Davy, horror-stricken.

"Of course! Look here! I thought you two fellows had a little more snap in you than to get scared at a man calling for help."

"I'll go with you an' pull him out," cried Tim, stung into valor by this crushing remark.

"Me, too!" cried Davy with a gulp. It was awful to contemplate following that ghostly voice away into the death trap of the Drowned Lands; but it was worse to remain there alone.

"No; you'd likely get mired, and cause more trouble. Get back to the road, quick, and wait for me there. If I need your help, I'll call."

The cry arose again, this time fainter and more agonized. "Hurry!"

cried the young man. "Here, Tim! Take this, and don't lose it again, for the life of you!"

He handed the boy the wedding dress, and hurried them forward until they were beyond the perilous area of the swamp. There he left them, and turning, plunged back into the woods.

Through the dense tangle, leaping from moss-clump to fallen log, he forced his way, the lantern, like a swaying will-o'-the-wisp, now casting a red splash on the surface of a pool, now leaving it in blackness, to light up a new circle of vine and stump and riotous undergrowth.

The two left behind stood for a moment gazing after him in terrified dismay. While he was with them his scorn of their fears, and his practical explanation of the dread sound, had acted like a stimulant; but now that they were left alone in the darkness they gave way to their worst apprehensions. He was gone! Gone straight to his doom, at the call of that luring voice, as so many before him had gone! And no one ever came back! Davy sank to the ground in a sobbing heap. Tim, more inured to disaster, stood silent, his small face white and fear-stricken.

Suddenly he flung himself upon his companion and clutched him by the hair. "Le's tell the folks! They'll save him! Le's tell daddy an'

Spectacle John an' John McIntyre! They'll come an' bring him back!"

He was already tearing up the road in the direction of the village, and all his languor put to flight by his fears, Davy came flying after him.

In an incredibly short time they burst upon the Cameron milkstand, gasping out the appalling news that the banshee had got the doctor, and he was being murdered in the Drowned Lands!

CHAPTER XVII

THE DAWN

Then in the darkness came a voice that said, "As thy heart bleedeth so My heart hath bled; As I have need of thee Thou needest me."

--FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

All evening John McIntyre had been sitting alone in the doorway. He was to resume work in the mill to-morrow, and as it was his last night at home, he had half expected his boy to spend it with him. But Tim had not come, and as he sat waiting, John McIntyre had picked up the Bible. It was the first time he had opened it of his own accord, and he had intended merely to glance into it to pa.s.s the time. But he had read on and on, till now the light had faded from the evening skies, and the bare phantom trees of the Drowned Lands had vanished in the night. The whip-poor-will that all evening had been mourning on the hillside, and the loon that had called across the water, were hushed.

The faint stars looked down on the silent blackness of the woods and the gray mists of the water beyond. But in those mists the lonely man at the doorway could discern a picture--a scene the Book had just now revealed to him. It was a weary group of Galilean fishermen approaching the sh.o.r.e, after a night of fruitless toil, while on the sands, shrouded in mists, stood One waiting for them in the dawn. One man in the little boat, straining his eyes to discern that mysterious Figure, suddenly felt his heart awake. He uttered in a thrilling whisper, "_It is the Lord_!" And without waiting for a word of reply, Peter, the disciple, who had so lately denied that One with curses, flung himself headlong into the sea and swam straight to Him.

John McIntyre's heart swelled. Well he understood the feeling that prompted Peter's act, for there was in his own homesick soul a longing to do the same, to plunge through the sea of loss and disappointment and go back to his denied Master. For this man's long night of storm and stress and fruitless toil was almost over, too. All unknown to himself, he had been slowly nearing the sh.o.r.e. The companionship and artless devotion of the boy--his enemy's child, but his now by all the rights of love--the kindness of the village folk in spite of rebuffs, the young doctor's care, and, above all, the tender message of the Book he had been constrained to read, had combined to guide him to the harbor. Yes, he was nearing the sh.o.r.e, and though he had not yet been able to discern Him through the night mists, there stood One waiting for him just behind the dawn.

Long into the night he sat, filled with a feeling of expectancy. He was half-consciously waiting for something, he knew not what.

Supposing that same One had been watching for him to return, all this weary time of sorrow and rebellion? The thought made his breath come quicker. Could it be possible? Could it be that the same Man who stood that morning on the sh.o.r.e of Galilee was waiting for even him--waiting with no rebuke for the curses and the denial, but only with outstretched, crucified hands, and the tender question He had put to that other faithless disciple, "Lovest thou me?"

A tear slipped down John McIntyre's hollow cheek, the first tear he had shed since he and Mary had laid their last baby in its little grave.

It fell upon his toil-hardened hand unnoticed, for a resolution was forming in his heart. He arose, stumbled hurriedly indoors, and lit his lamp. He must look once more into that Book. He must find out at once if this wonderful thing could be true, if life and happiness might still be his. With trembling hands he took up the Bible, as though it held for him a sentence of life or death, and turned over the leaves in a groping way. His movements were like those of a man in darkness, fumbling for a door that he hopes will lead him out into light and freedom. He stopped and gazed at the open page with a great wonder in his eyes. Perhaps he had been searching haphazard, or perhaps, under Divine guidance, his fingers, so long familiar with those pages, had gone unerringly to that marvelous story of the Fatherhood of G.o.d. For this was the message:

"_And while he was yet a great way off his Father saw him and had compa.s.sion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him._"

The Book dropped to the floor; John McIntyre sank to his knees beside it, his gray head bowed to the ground. He uttered an inarticulate cry.

It was like the sound a babe utters when first it sees its mother's face after a day's absence--a cry that contains both the anguish of their separation and the joy of their reunion. He could form no coherent prayer, but the supreme thought of his homing soul burst from him: "My Father!" he sobbed, "my Father! I've been away! I've been away!" How long he knelt thus he had no idea. But in that meeting with his lost Master he lived through a supreme joy that far outmeasured all the bitterness of the past. He was aroused by the sound of footsteps near his door. Two figures were coming slowly up the pathway. Half dazed, John McIntyre arose and went forward with the lamp. As the light fell upon the two men he uttered an exclamation of concern. Dr. Allen, pale and exhausted, and splashed with mud, was standing there, supporting a staggering, half-drowned man.

"I found an old friend caught in the swamp," faltered the young man weakly. "May I bring him in for a minute, Mr. McIntyre?"

"Yes! yes! Come in! come in!" cried John McIntyre, setting down the lamp and hurrying forward with a chair. "I'll fix up the bed----" He stopped suddenly and gazed stupidly at the stranger. His eyes dilated, his face became overspread with the awe and wonder of some discovery too great to be grasped. The chair fell from his hands with a crash.

He uttered a single word, and in it there was a world of unbelieving joy and fear.

"Martin!" he whispered.

The stranger raised his drooping head. He stared in turn at the stooped shoulders, the drawn face, and the white hair of John McIntyre, and his strength seemed suddenly to return. He pushed Gilbert aside as if he had been a child, and caught the man's shoulders in a mighty grip. He held him away from him for a moment, and then broke into a great sob:

"John! My G.o.d! old John! Have I found you?"

With a face of deep wonder, Gilbert slipped softly outside, closing the door behind him. And as he looked toward the place where he had so lately had a desperate struggle with death, he saw that the night mists were slowly vanishing. The whole dark earth was awakening in one grand bird-chorus, for the dawn was breaking over the Drowned Lands.