CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN ANGEL IN THE WILDERNESS He acted so like a crazed man, grovelling face downward in the grass, that I had to hold him, fearful lest his noise might attract attention from our enemies.
"Be quiet, De Croix!" I commanded sternly, my hand hard upon him, my eyes peering through the darkness to determine if possible the cause for his mysterious fright.

"What is it that has so driven you out of your senses ?" He half rose, staring back at the black shadow of the dim doorway, his face white as chalk in the starlight and faint glare of the distant fires.
"'T was the face of a dead woman," he gasped, pointing forward, "there, just within the door! I saw her buried three years ago, I swear; yet, God be merciful! she awaited me yonder in the gloom." "Pish!" I exclaimed, thoroughly disgusted at his weakness, and rising to my feet.

"Your nerves are unstrung by what we have been through, and you dream of the dead." "It is not so!" he protested, his voice faltering pitifully; "I saw her, Monsieur,--nor was she once this day in my thought until that moment." "Well, I shall soon know if there is a ghost within," I answered shortly, determined to make quick end of it.

"Remain here, while I go into the house and see what I can find." For a moment he clung to me like a frightened child; but I shook off his hands a bit roughly, and stepped boldly across the threshold.

That was an age when faith in ghostly visitations yet lingered to harass the souls of men.