He was quiet for a space; then rose and began to walk up and down the heather; and after that he dropped sullenly again to Janet’s side. "Not long since I met Shameless Wayne on Dead Lad’s Rigg, and fought with him," he went on. "I all but had him—my blade was lifted high to strike—and then—out of the empty moor a great brown hound leaped up at me. His jaws were running crimson froth, and his teeth shone white as sun on snow, and he bayed—once—and then he had me by the throat." "Sir, ’twas your fancy! I tell you, it was fancy," cried Janet wildly. "Did Wayne see it, or Red Ratcliffe, or——" "None saw it save I. Dost mind the tale of how my father died, Janet? For dread of the Dog. ’Tis the eldest-born that sees it always, and none beside.—Hark ye, he’s baying across the marshland yonder! Fly, girl—fly, I tell thee, lest he set his seal on thee in passing." She stifled her own dread and pleaded with him—quietly, sanely, with the tender forcefulness that only her kind can compass. He grew quieter by and by, and set himself with something of his old force of will to tell the tale to its end. "I shall never shake it off again, Janet," he said. "Each day it has a new sort of dread in waiting for me. Sometimes I am athirst and dare not drink—the sound of water is frenzy to my wits——" "Have any of the Wildwater dogs turned on you of late?" she asked, with a sudden glance at him. "Nay, lass! There’s no key to the trouble there." "Are you sure, sir? You recall how one of the farm-dogs ran mad a year ago, and a farm-hand, trying to kill him, was bitten on the arm—and again on the hand as he tried to snatch a hair as a cure against the mad-sickness? He, too feared water——" "Ay, and died of a sickness of the body, plain to be felt and known. But what of me, girl? ’Tis a mind-sickness, this—a dumb, soft-stepping, noiseless thing that flees if one stands up to it, only to come back, and snarl, and grin, the moment the heart fails for weariness. Come, we’ll get us home, Janet. It has eased me a little to tell thee of it—haply thou’lt help me make a last big fight." "God willing, sir," she murmured, as she turned to walk beside him. Once only he broke silence on the way to Wildwater. Stopping, he bared his throat to the moonlight, and bade her look well at it, and watched with anxious eyes as she obeyed. "Canst—canst see the teeth-marks there?" he whispered. "’Tis smooth, sir, without a scratch on ’t." "Pass thy hand over—lightly. I can feel the deep wound burn and sting—surely thy fingers can feel the pit." "There is no wound, grandfather—no wound at all." He drew his breath again, and laughed, and, "Tell me again, dear lass," he said, "that it is fancy—naught but fancy." "It is altogether fancy," she answered. "Art tricking me?" he said with sudden suspicion. "Let me see thy fingers, lass—the fingers that touched my throat."