After they had passed by,
Cale continued his way quietly enough, following the noisy party at
a safe distance, as they too seemed bound towards Snowe Hill.
They were approaching the top of the hill when a sudden sound of
shrieking met their ears, mixed with the loud laughter and
half-drunken shouts of the roisterers. Tom caught his companion's
arm and pulled him along.
"That is a woman's voice!" he cried quickly. "She is crying for
help. Come!"
"Beshrew me if I ever again walk abroad with a peruke at night!"
grumbled Cale, as he let himself be hurried along by the eager Tom.
"I am not a watchman. Why should I risk my goods for every silly
wench who should know better than to be abroad of a night alone?
Come, come, my young friend, my legs are not as long as yours; I
shall have no wind for fighting if you drag me along at this pace!"
It was the urgency of the cries that spurred Tom to the top of his
speed. The laughter was loud and ceaseless, but the shrieks were
becoming faint and stifled. Tom's blood was boiling. He pictured to
himself a foul murder done. A few seconds before they reached the
spot a new sound greeted their ears--a sort of rattling, bounding
noise--which provoked another peal of uncontrollable laughter.
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