The rest stood cowering on the slope under the smithy.

David meanwhile had climbed the ruined wall, and stood with head strained forward, his eyes sweeping the moor.

But every outline was sinking fast into the gulf of the night; only a few indistinct masses--a cluster of gorse-bushes, a clump of mountain ash--still showed here and there.
The leader made for one of these darker patches on the mountain-side, led on always by the recurrent screams.

He reached it; it was a patch of juniper overhanging the Red Brook--when suddenly from behind it there shot up a white thing, taller than the tallest man, with nodding head and outspread arms, and such laughter--so faint, so shrill, so evil, breaking midway into a hoarse angry yell.
'_Jenny Crum! Jenny Crum!_' cried the whole band with one voice, and, wheeling round, they ran down the Scout, joined by the contingent from the smithy, some of them falling headlong among the heather in their agony of flight, others ruthlessly knocking over those in front of them who seemed to be in their way.

In a few seconds, as it seemed, the whole Scout was left to itself and the night.