I guess that the story I have just related must, notwithstanding his unbelief, have been working in Turkey's brain that night, for after we had walked for a mile or more along the road, and had arrived at the foot of a wooded hill, well known to all the children of the neighbourhood for its bilberries, he turned into the hollow of a broken track, which lost itself in a field as yet only half-redeemed from the moorland.

It was plain to me now that Turkey had some goal or other in his view; but I followed his leading, and asked no questions.

All at once he stopped, and said, pointing a few yards in front of him: "Look, Ranald!" I did look, but the moon was behind the hill, and the night was so dim that I had to keep looking for several moments ere I discovered that he was pointing to the dull gleam of dark water.

Very horrible it seemed.

I felt my flesh creep the instant I saw it.