“What are you going to do now, Elster?” inquired Captain Dawkes.

“Go to the mill again, I think, and find out if any one saw Hartledon leave the skiff, and which way he took.  One of the servants can run down to Hillary’s the while.”

Dr. Ashton rose, bowing for permission to Lady Kirton; and the gentlemen with one accord rose with him, the same purpose in the mind of all—­that of more effectually scouring the ground between the mill and Hartledon.  The countess-dowager felt that she should like to box the ears of every one of them.  The idea of danger in connection with Lord Hartledon had not yet penetrated to her brain.

At this moment, before they had left the room, there arose a strange wild sound from without—­almost an unearthly sound—­that seemed to come from several voices, and to be bearing round the house from the river-path.  Mrs. O’Moore put down her knife and fork, and rose up with a startled cry.

“There’s nothing to be alarmed at,” said the dowager.  “It is those Irish harvesters.  I know their horrid voices, and dare say they are riotously drunk.  Hartledon ought to put them in prison for it.”

The sounds died away into silence.  Mrs. O’Moore took her hands from her eyes, where they had been pressed.  “Don’t you know what it is, Lady Kirton?  It is the Irish death-wail!”

It rose again, louder than before, for those from whom it came were nearing the house—­a horribly wailing sound, ringing out in the silence of the night.  Mrs. O’Moore crouched into her chair again, and hid her terrified face.  She was not Irish, and had never heard that sound but once, and that was when her child died.

“She is right,” cried her husband, the O’Moore; “that is the death-wail.  Hark! it is for a chieftain; they mourn the loss of one high in the land.  And—­they are coming here!  Oh, Elster! can DEATH have overtaken your brother?”

The gentlemen had stood spell-bound, listening to the sound, their faces a mixture of surprise and credulity.  At the words they rushed out with one accord, and the women stole after them with trembling steps and blanched lips.

“If ever I saw such behaviour in all my existence!” irascibly spoke the countess-dowager, who was left alone in her glory.  “The death-wail, indeed!  The woman’s a fool.  I’ll get those Irishmen transported, if I can.”

In the hall the servants were gathered, cowering almost as the ladies did.  Their master had flown down the hall-steps, and the labourers were coming steadily up to it, bearing something in procession.  Dr. Ashton came back as quickly as he had gone out, extending his arms before him.

“Ladies, I pray you go in,” he urged, in strange agitation.  “You must not meet these—­these Irishmen.  Go back to the dining-room, I entreat you, and remain in it.”

But the curiosity of women—­who can suppress it?  They were as though they heard not, and were pressing on to the door, when Val Elster dashed in with a white face.