“For sure,” he said at last, with an effort to seem at ease; “for sure the dog is fëy with his age and his blindness.” Then, more slowly still, “And if that were not so, it might look as though he had the fear on him, because of some one who strove to come in.” “It is Muireall,” I whispered, scarce above my breath. “No,” said Aunt Elspeth, and the voice of her now was as though it had come out of the granite all about us, cold and hard as that. “No! Muireall is already in the room.” We both turned and looked at her. She sat quite still, on the chair betwixt the fire and the table. Her face was rigid, ghastly, but her eyes were large and wild. A look first of fear, then almost of tenderness, came into her husband’s face. “Hush, Elspeth,” he said, “that is foolishness.” “It is not foolishness, Archibald,” she resumed in the same hard, unemotional voice, but with a terrible intensity. “Man, man, because ye are blind, is there no sight for those who can see?” “There is no one here but ourselves.” But now Aunt Elspeth half rose, with supplicating arms: “Muireall! Muireall! Muireall! O muirnean, muirnean!” I saw Archibald Campbell shaking as though he were a child and no strong man. “Will you be telling us this, Elspeth,” he began in a hoarse voice--“will you be telling me this: if Muireall is in the room, beyond Rory there, who will be at the door? Who is trying to come in at the door?” “It’s a man. I do not know the man. It is a man. It is Death, maybe. I do not know the man. O muirnean, mo muirnean!” But now the great gaunt black dog--terrible in his seeing blindness he was to me--began again his savage snarling, his bristling insensate fury. He had ceased a moment while our voices filled the room, and had sidled a little way towards the place where Aunt Elspeth saw Muireall, whining low as he did so, and swishing his tail furtively along the whitewashed flagstones. I know not what awful thing would have happened. It seemed to me that Death was coming to all of us. But at that moment we all heard the sound of a galloping horse. There was a lull in the wind, and the rain lashed no more like a streaming whistling whip. Even Rory crouched silent, his nostrils quivering, his curled snout showing his fangs. Gorromalt stood, listening intently.