“I’m not caring about rapping, and I’m not caring about entering at all now,” said M’I ver, turning about with some uneasiness. “I wish we had fallen on a more cheery dwelling, even if it were to be coerced with club and pistol. A prickle’s at my skin that tells me here is dool, and I can smell mort-cloth.” Sonachan gave a grunt, and thumped loudly on the fir boards. A silence that was like a swound fell on the instant, and the light within went out at a puff. For a moment it seemed as if our notion of occupancy and light and lament had been a delusion, for now the grave itself was no more desolate and still. “I think we might be going,” said I in a whisper, my heart thud-thudding at my vest, my mind sharing some of John Splendid’s apprehension that we were intruders on some profound grief. And yet my hunger was a furious thing that belched red-hot at my stomach. “Royal’s my race!” said Stewart “I’ll be kept tirling at no door-pin in the Highlands,--let us drive in the bar.” “What does he say?” asked the cleric, and I gave him the English of it. “You’ll drive no doors in here,” said he firmly to Stewart “We can but give another knock and see what comes of it Knock you, M’Iver.” “Barbreck.” “Barbreck be it then.” “I would sooner go to the glen foot, and risk all,” said John. Sonachan grunted again; out he drew his dirk, and he rapped with the hilt of it loud and long at the door. A crying of children rose within, and, behold, I was a child again! I was a child again in Shira Glen, alone in a little chamber with a window uncurtained and unshuttered, yawning red-mouthed to the outer night My back was almost ever to the window, whose panes reflected a peat-fire and a face as long as a fiddle, and eyes that shone like coal; and though I looked little at the window yawning to the wood, I felt that it never wanted some curious spy outside, some one girning or smiling in at me and my book. I must look round, or I must put a hand on my shoulder to make sure no other hand was there,--then the Terror that drives the black blood from the heart through all the being, and a boy unbuckling his kilt with fevered fingers and leaping with frantic sobs to bed! One night when the black blood of the Terror still coursed through me, though I was dovering over to sleep, there came a knocking at the door, a knock commanding, a knock never explained. It brought me to my knees with a horror that almost choked me at the throat, a cold dew in the very palms of the hands. I dare not ask who rapped for fear I should have an answer that comes some day or other to every child of my race,--an answer no one told me of, an answer that then I guessed. All this flashed through my mind when the children’s crying rose in the dark interior--that cry of children old and young as they go through the mysteries of life and the alley-ways of death. The woman soothed her children audibly, then called out, asking what we wanted.