The moon had climbed high above the mountain, but beneath the flood of silver light the shadows lay dark and deep in Mutton Hollow.

Then as he stood there, from out the shadowy gloom, came the wild, weird song they had heard the evening before.

The man at the window groaned.

The song sank to a low, moaning wail, and he seemed to hear again the wind in the pine above the grave of the murdered girl.

She was calling, calling--would he come back?
Back from the grave, could he come?
The words of the giant mountaineer seemed burned into the father's brain; Hell couldn't hold him against such as that.
Then the man with the proud face, the face of a scholar and poet, drew back from the window, shaking with a fear he could not control.