in the green pathway skirting the wall behind the piles of planks. Here
his very footsteps became inaudible; the frozen grass scarcely crackled
under his tread. He must have loved the spot, have feared no danger,
sought nothing but what was pleasant there. He no longer concealed
his gun. The path stretched away like a dark trench, except that the
moonrays, gliding ever and anon between the piles of timber, then
streaked the grass with patches of light. All slept, both darkness and
light, with the same deep, soft, sad slumber. No words can describe the
calm peacefulness of the place. The young man went right down the path,
and stopped at the end where the walls of the Jas-Meiffren form an
angle. Here he listened as if to ascertain whether any sound might be
coming from the adjoining estate. At last, hearing nothing, he stooped
down, thrust a plank aside, and hid his gun in a timber-stack.

An old tombstone, which had been overlooked in the clearing of the
burial-ground, lay in the corner, resting on its side and forming a high
and slightly sloping seat. The rain had worn its edges, and moss was
slowly eating into it. Nevertheless, the following fragment of an
inscription, cut on the side which was sinking into the ground, might
still have been distinguished in the moonlight: "_Here lieth . . . Marie
. . . died . . ._" The finger of time had effaced the rest.

When the young man had concealed his gun he again listened attentively,
and still hearing nothing, resolved to climb upon the stone. The wall
being low, he was able to rest his elbows on the coping. He could,
however, perceive nothing except a flood of light beyond the row of
mulberry-trees skirting the wall. The flat ground of the Jas-Meiffren
spread out under the moon like an immense sheet of unbleached linen;
a hundred yards away the farmhouse and its outbuildings formed a still
whiter patch. The young man was still gazing anxiously in that direction