f one in pain,
but it was not that, being far too regular and constant. Now it seemed
a kind of song, now a wail--seemed, that is, to his changing fancy, for
the sound itself was never changed or checked. It was unlike anything
he had ever heard; and in its tone there was something fearful,
chilling, and unearthly.

The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost and
snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound went on
without any interruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and
put his knee against the door. It was secured on the inside, but
yielded to the pressure, and turned upon its hinges. He saw the
glimmering of a fire upon the old walls, and entered.

CHAPTER 71

The dull, red glow of a wood fire--for no lamp or candle burnt within
the room--showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back
towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of
one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping
posture and the cowering form were there, but no hands were stretched
out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury
with the piercing cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head
bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched,
it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause,
accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard.

The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that
made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave
in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form
was that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering
embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire,
the time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all
in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin!

Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were
he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on--still the
same rocking in the chair--the same stricken figure was there,
unchanged and heedless of his presence.

He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form--distinctly
seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up--arrested
it. He returned to where he had stood before--advanced a
pace--another--another still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes!
Changed as it was, he knew it well.

'Master!' he cried