Little by little the sound grew plainer, more insistent, until,
mingled with the leafy stirrings, he could hear a plaintive melody,
rising and falling, faint with distance.
Hereupon Barnabas halted suddenly, his chin in hand, his brow
furrowed in thought, while over his senses stole the wailing melody
of the distant violins. A while he stood thus, then plunged into the
cool shadow of a wood, and hurried on by winding tracks, through
broad glades, until the wood was left behind, until the path became
a grassy lane; and ever the throbbing melody swelled and grew. It
was a shady lane, tortuous and narrow, but on strode Barnabas until,
rounding a bend, he beheld a wall, an ancient, mossy wall of red
brick; and with his gaze upon this, he stopped again. But the melody
called to him, louder now and more insistent, and mingled with the
throb of the violins was the sound of voices and laughter.
Then, standing on tip-toe, Barnabas set his hands to the coping of
the wall, and drawing himself up, caught a momentary vision of
smiling gardens, of green lawns where bright figures moved, of
winding walks and neat trimmed hedges, ere, swinging himself over,
he dropped down among a bed of Sir George Annersley's stocks.
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