the way or of the steps he was taking—and the flute notes followed them from above—sweetly—mockingly, as it seemed to him. What were they? Why were they? How came Cassandra there listening? He could stand this mystery no longer—and he cried out to her.
"Cass, hear. Listen to that."
"Yes, Frale." She spoke wearily, but did not pause.
"Wait, Cass. What be hit, ye reckon? Hit sure hain't no fiddle. Thar! Heark to hit. Whar be hit at?"
"I reckon it's up yonder at Doctor Thryng's cabin. He has a little pipe like, that he blows on and it makes music like that."
"An' you clum' up thar to heark to him?" He bounded forward in the darkness and walked close to her. She quivered like a leaf, but held her voice low and steady as she replied.
"No, Frale. I go there evenings when I'm not too tired. I've been going there ever since you left to—"
"That doctah, he's be'n castin' a spell on you, Cass. I kin see hit—how you walkin' off an' nevah 'low me to touch you. Ye hain't said howd'y to me nor how you glad I come. You like a col' white drift o' snow blowin' on ahead o' me. You hain't no human girl like you used to be. I got somethin' to put a spell on him, too, ef he don't watch out."
He spoke in his mild, low-voiced drawl, but he kept close to her