The face was indistinct, but (as Dan's conscience told him) hostile and unforgiving; there was nothing to reflect a ray of light, and there seemed to be a rustle of some departure, like the spirit fleeing.
The ghost! What could it be but the ghost?
Ghosts ought to be white; but terror scorns all prejudice.

Probably this murdered one was buried in his breeches.

Dan's heart beat quicker than his axe had struck; and his feet were off to beat the ground still quicker.

But no Springhaven lad ever left his baggage.

Dan leaped aside first to catch up his basket, and while he stooped for it, he heard a clear strong voice.
"Who are you, that have dared to come and cut my fence down ?" No ghost could speak like that, even if he could put a fence up.