The din of battle had wakened even the dead, it seemed; for on a sudden the Lean Man sat him upright on the bier and watched the fight. A flame was in his eyes, and with one shaking hand he strove to wrench the jaw-cloth loose, and could not. His lips moved with a voiceless cry, as if he would fain have cheered his folk to the attack; but speech and body-strength had failed, and only the brain, the quick, scheming brain, was live in him. Yet none marked his agony, none moved to unwrap the grave-cloth from his jaws. The Ratcliffes, desperate now, made a last sudden effort just as the Waynes were surest of their victory. With one deep-throated yell they leaped to the attack, and drove the foe back with a rush, and rained in their blows as only men do when the grave is hungry for them. Two of the long Waynes of Cranshaw dropped, and one of the Hill House men. It seemed the Wildwater folk might conquer yet by very fury of the forlorn hope they were leading. "A Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" roared the on-sweeping band. "Wayne and the Dog!" came the answer—but feebler now and less assured, for three more Waynes were lying face to the ceiling-timbers. And then a dread thing chanced. For Mistress Wayne, shrinking close into the window-niche and watching the red pathway of the fight, heard a new note cleave through the uproar. The wind was raving overhead; the cries were loud as ever; but deeper than them all was the low whine that sounded from the courtyard door. She saw no sword-play now, no forward leap or downward crash of men; her gaze was rooted trance-like on the door, and round about her played an ice-cold wind. Up the long chamber, through the reeking press, a brown and shaggy-coated beast stepped softly—stepped till he reached the Lean Man’s bier. But only Mistress Wayne had marked his passing. She saw the Lean Man cease struggling with the jaw-cloth—saw him turn a haunted face toward the left hand of the bier, while terror glazed his eyes—saw the rough-coated hound set back his shadowy haunches for the spring, and leap, and clutch the Lean Man by the throat. "God’s pity, ’tis the Dog—’tis Barguest!" cried Mistress Wayne. Her voice, sharp-edged with agony, struck like a sword-thrust into the fight. The Ratcliffes were sweeping all before them; but they stopped for one half moment. Barguest had carried disaster to them always; there was not one of them but dreaded the Brown Hound; and the woman’s cry that he was in the room here plucked all the vigour from their sword-arms. The battle was lost and won in that half-moment’s pause; for what had daunted the Red Folk had put fresh heart into the Waynes and driven them to the onset with resistless fury.