"She would undoubtedly have come down this road to the river," McAlway
said in a low voice.
It was growing dark. When I walked out on the bridge my legs were
strangely unsteady; a weight seemed pressing on my breast so that my
breath came hard. We looked down into the shallow, placid water: the
calm of the evening was upon it; the middle of the stream was like a
rumpled glassy ribbon, but the edges, deep-shaded by overhanging trees,
were of a mysterious darkness. In all my life I think I never
experienced such a degree of silence--of breathless, oppressive silence.
It seemed as if, at any instant, it must burst into some fearful excess
of sound.
Suddenly we heard a voice--in half-articulate exclamation. I turned,
every nerve strained to the uttermost. A figure, seemingly materialized
out of darkness and silence, was moving on the bridge.
"Oh!--McAlway," a voice said.
Then I heard the Scotch Preacher in low tones.
"Have you seen Anna Williams?"
"She is at the house," answered the voice.
"Get your horse," said the Scotch Preacher.
I ran back and led the mare across the bridge (how I remember, in that
silence, the thunder of her hoofs on the loose boards!) Just at the top
of the little hill leading up from the bridge the two men turned in at a
gate.
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