By now, they could clearly hear the nightwalkers, voices, drums and cymbals, singing a braided song. The first part had a steady, almost menacing beat, while the second part twined about it a long wail. It took Amadeo a moment to recognize the tune as one he’d sometimes heard in New Orleans.

Only when the line of torches turned onto the Gilmartin’s carriageway could he make out the words:

“Hi, ho,
Nobody home,
No eat,
Nor drink,
Nor money have we none.
Ye-et, we willllll, be me-e-eery,

Hi, ho…”