Every
wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every
living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached.
He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep
scampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which
lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its
breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at
every step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad the
moor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that low
gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his
approach, he plodded on.
He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. He
did not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away from
the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed
to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the
gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them.
Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that never
trembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes,
immovable and clear--horribly clear they were--eyes that simply stared,
neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were at
every tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring like
pools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart.
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