“Be of good faith!” were the last words he spoke to them.

Having done so he shut the door, and they heard his voice immediately uplifted in prayer.  They waited a little, and the sound roiled steadily on.  Sir Walter then bade Masters extinguish all the lights and send the household to bed, though the time was not more than ten o’clock.

As for Masters, the glamour and appeal of those strenuous words at the dinner-table had now passed, and presently, as he prepared to retire, he found himself far less confident and assured than his recent words had implied.  He sank slowly from hope to fear, even pictured the worse, and asked himself what would follow if the worst happened.  He believed that it might mean serious disaster for Sir Walter.  If another life were sacrificed to this unknown peril, and it transpired that his master had sanctioned what would amount to suicide in the eyes of reason; then he began to fear that grave trouble must result.  Already the burning words of Septimus May began to cool and sound unreal, and Masters suspected that, if they were repeated in other ears, which had not heard him utter them, or seen the fervor of religious earnestness and reverence in which they had been spoken, this feverish business of exorcising a ghost in the twentieth century might only awake derision and receive neither credence nor respect.  His entire concern was for Sir Walter, not Mr. May.  He could not sleep, lighted a pipe, considered whether it was in his power to do anything, felt a sudden impulse to take certain steps, yet hesitated—­from no fear to himself, but doubt whether action might not endanger another.  Mary did not sleep either, and she suffered more, for she had never approved, and now she blamed herself not a little for her weak opposition.  A thousand arguments occurred to her while she lay awake.  Then, for a time, she forgot present tribulations, and her own grief overwhelmed her, as it was wont to do by night.  For while the events that had so swiftly followed each other since her husband’s death banished him now and again, save from her subconscious mind, when alone he was swift to return and her sorrow made many a night sleepless.  She was herself ill, but did not know it.  The reaction had yet to come, and could not be long delayed, for her nervous energy was worn out now.  She wept and lived days with the dead; then the present returned to her mind, and she fretted and prayed—­for Septimus May and for daylight.  She wondered why stormy nights were always the longest.  She heard a thousand unfamiliar sounds, and presently leaped from her bed, put on a dressing-gown, and crept out into the house.  To know that all was well with the watcher would hearten her.  But then her feet dragged before she had left the threshold of her own room, and she stood still and shuddered a little.  For how if all were not well?  How if his voice no longer sounded?

She hesitated to make the experiment, and balanced the relief of reassurance against the horror of silence.  She remembered a storm at sea, when through a long night, not lacking danger to a laboring steamer with weak engines, she had lain awake and felt her heart warm again when the watch shouted the hour.