He was distinctly seen to rise against the skyline, against the warm clear immensity of the northern sky—for so far public interest followed him—and to descend again into the night, into an obscurity from which it would seem he will nevermore emerge. He passed—into a mystery. No one knows to this day what happened to him after he crossed the brow. When later on the two Fulchers and Witherspoon, moved by their own imaginations, came up the hill and stared after him, the night had swallowed him up altogether.
The three men stood close. There was not a sound out of the wooded blackness that hid the Farm from their eyes.
"It's all right," said young Fulcher ending a silence.
"Don't see any lights," said Witherspoon.
"You wouldn't from here."
"It's misty," said the elder Fulcher.
They meditated for a space.
"'E'd 'ave come back if anything was wrong," said young Fulcher, and this seemed so obvious and conclusive that presently old Fulcher said "Well," and the three went home to bed—thoughtfully I will admit. . . .
A shepherd out by Huckster's Farm heard a squealing in the night that he thought was foxes, and in the morning one of his lambs had been killed, dragged halfway towards Hickleybrow and partially devoured. . . .
The inexplicable part of it all is the absence of any indisputable remains of Skinner!
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