Gentle snow fell through a grey night as a party of men and women marched up Red Hill upon the following Tuesday evening.  An invisible moon made all this clear.  Parson Yates led the way with his cassock hitched out of the snow and with a stout boy on either side of him.  One lad bore a candle, and the other, a little bell.

“Butivul night for a holy deed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cramphorn.  Mrs. Pearn, Jenifer and Mr. Bluett walked beside him and a dozen villagers accompanied them.  The matter, however, at their pastor’s desire had been kept as far as possible from the general ear.

“I hope as you’m lookin’ sharp to the roads an’ the quay an’ Smugglers’ Lane as usual,” whispered Johnny to Robert Bluett.  “Some long tongue be sure to blab this business; an’ if the Frenchman’s laying off, they might signal her in to-night, ’stead of to-morrow.”

“Not so much as a sea-otter could go from sea to shore without one of my men would know it,” answered the other.

“Then a great load be off my mind, I assure ’e.”

p. 347Red Hill above Daleham was a sandstone bluff that sprang up near three hundred feet abruptly from the sea, and, save at low tides, deep water always ran beneath.  Upon its head a rough tonsure of wind-worn pine trees circled the grey ruins of Stapledon manor-house, and inland therefrom extended the fishermen’s gardens and stretched two roads.  One of these ways led to Daleham Church and the country; the other was that up which Parson Yates and his company now climbed from the village.

“Here will we stand,” said the good man, “and should anything in the nature of a superhuman visitation occur, you must light your candle, Richard Trout, and you, Noah Collins, after I have lifted my voice the first time, must strike upon the bell thrice—for each Person of the Ever-blessed Trinity.  And see no wax falls from the candle on to my book, boy.”

They drew up outside the belt of fir and all endured half an hour of misery, for the snow, though slight, persisted and the air and earth were bitter cold.  Presently, however, the snow thinned to scattered flakes, then stopped; a star stole out and touched the white carpet with silver.  Then came the beat of the church clock telling ten, and, as if in answer, a sigh ran through the woods, and gloomy figures moved beneath the trees.

p. 348Silent as a dream and darker than night itself against the snow, a black pageant crept from the forest, and crossed the open land.  One tall figure, above man’s common stature, moved in front and, following him, came horses that drew a plumed hearse, while certain footmen moved orderly behind.  Then did Dick Trout, with shaking blue fingers, strike tinder and make a flame, and Noah Collins prepared to beat a triple tattoo upon his bell.  Only Mr. Yates himself unhappily failed at the critical pinch.

“Give it ’em; give it to ’em, my dear soul, or they’ll be gone!” implored Mr. Cramphorn in frantic accents.  But the little man had dropped his book from a numbed and shaking hand, and, by the time he had picked it up again, the ghostly funeral was sweeping along the church road, already half swallowed up by night.

“I lacked the power of speech,” stuttered Mr. Yates.  “I cannot deny it—the spirit of fear came upon me and I dropped my book.”

“Give ’em a broadside coming back, your reverence—if ’tis true as they do come back,” suggested Bluett.

Twenty minutes later a man approached by the road from the church, and Cramphorn eagerly enquired of him whether he had seen the funeral.

“Funeral?  No, I seed no funeral,” answered the p. 349voice of Merry Jonathan.  “Be that Parson Yates huntin’ ghostes again?”

“We have come to liberate these unhappy phantoms and so far failed.  They passed before I summoned presence of mind to address them.”

“‘Passed?’  When?  Why for didn’t I see ’em?”

“You!” snorted Johnny Cramphorn.  “Who be the likes of you to see such holy things?”

Jonathan growled and approached Jenifer and her mother.

“Best you women come home, else you’ll get your noses frozen off, an’ the spirits won’t thaw ’em for ’e, ’cepting those at home.”

“Let us have no irreverence, Jonathan Godbeer,” said the clergyman.  “You will do better to add your prayers to ours, that my courage may be sustained and my voice strengthened for the coming ordeal.”

The captain of the smugglers did not answer, but strode forth and walked over white ground lately traversed by the procession of spirits.

“Doan’t ’e cross theer track, my dear man,” cried Mrs. Pearn; “else ten to one they’ll blast ’e crooked for the rest of your days!”

But her caution came too late.  Godbeer stood and gazed upon the snow where the spectral hearse had passed.  Then he lifted his voice and shouted with all his might.

p. 350“Gauger Bluet............