The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor; the warm darkness seemed to pulse like blood about them.
“Le lendemain, nouvelle affaire:
Pour le berger le troc fut bon...”
“Here are the steps,” cried Denis. He guided his companions over the danger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-tree walk under their feet. It was lighter here, or at least it was just perceptibly less dark; for the yew walk was wider than the path that had led them under the lea of the house. Looking up, they could see between the high black hedges a strip of sky and a few stars.
“Car il obtint de la bergere...”
Went on Ivor, and then interrupted himself to shout, “I’m going to run down,” and he was off, full speed, down the invisible slope, singing unevenly as he went:
“Trente baisers pour un mouton.”
The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainly exhorting everyone to caution: the slope was steep, one might break one’s neck. What was wrong with
