All the old wives' tales were dug up and passed along, growing as they
went. Little eyes and mouths grew permanently rounded with horrors, and
the ground was thoroughly well spaded and planted with sturdy shoots
warranted to yield a noisome harvest of superstition for generations to
come.
The occupants of Clos Bourel and Plaisance carefully locked their doors
of a night now.
Old Mrs. Carre at Plaisance vowed she had heard the White Horses go
past, on the nights before Tom Hamon and Peter were found. And every one
knew that when the ghostly horses were heard, some one was going to die.
But as she had said nothing about it before, her contribution to the
general uneasiness was received with respect before her face but with
open doubt behind her back.
Old Nikki Never-mind-his-name--lest his descendants, if he had any,
take umbrage at the matter--swore that he had not only seen the ghostly
steed pass Vauroque in the dead of night, but that it bore a rider whose
head was carried carefully in his right hand. Unfortunately, the
headless one passed so quickly that Nikki said he could not distinguish
his features--having looked for them first in the wrong place--and so he
could not say for certain who the next to die would be; but from the
knowing wag of his head the neighbours were of opinion that he knew more
than he chose to tell, and he gained quite a reputation thereby.
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