It seemed as if a hundred eyes gleamed out of the blackness; then there was a movement, a whining, snarling, snapping movement, and as they walked up the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could hear the pack falling out to the side and behind them.  Also he knew that Jean was ahead of them now.  He did not speak, nor did Josephine offer to break the silence again.  Still letting her hand rest in his she followed close behind the half-breed.  Her hand was so cold that Philip involuntarily held it tighter in his own, as if to give it warmth.  He could feel her shivering, and yet something told him that what he sensed in the darkness was not caused by chill alone.  Several times her fingers closed shudderingly about his.

They had not walked more than a couple of hundred yards when a turn brought them out of the forest trail, and the blackness ahead was broken by a solitary light, a dimly lighted window in a pit of gloom.

“Marja is not expecting us to-night,” apologized the girl nervously.  “That is Adare House.”

The loneliness of the spot, its apparent emptiness of life, the silence save for the snuffling and whining of the unseen beasts about them, stirred Philip with a curious sensation of awe.  He had at least expected light and life at Adare House.  Here were only the mystery of darkness and a deathlike quiet.  Even the one light seemed turned low.  As they advanced toward it a great shadow grew out of the gloom; and then, all at once, it seemed as if a curtain of the forest had been drawn aside, and away beyond the looming shadow Philip saw the glow of a camp-fire.  From that distant fire there came the challenging howl of a dog, and instantly it was taken up by a score of fierce tongues about them.  As Josephine’s voice rose to quell the disturbance the light in the window grew suddenly brighter, and then a door opened and in it stood the figures of a man and woman.  The man was standing behind the woman, looking over her shoulder, and for one moment Philip caught the flash of the lamp-glow on the barrel of a rifle.

Josephine paused.

“You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and you follow with Jean?” she whispered.  “I will try and see you again to-night, when I have dressed myself, and I am in better condition to show you hospitality.”

Jean was so close that he overheard her.  “We will follow,” he said softly.  “Go ahead, ma cheri.”

His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity; and as Josephine drew her hand from Philip’s and went on ahead of them he dropped back close to the other’s side.