“By the living God,” he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes like a goaded bull’s--“I know that horse. Only one horse runs like that at the gallop. ’Tis the grey stallion I sold three months ago to the man at Drumdoon--ay, ay, for the son of the man at Drumdoon! A horse to ride for the shooting--a good horse for the hills--that was what he wanted! Ay, ay, by God, a horse for the son of the man at Drumdoon! It’s the grey stallion: no other horse in the Straths runs like that--d’ye hear? d’ye hear? Elspeth, woman, is there hearing upon you for _that_? Hey, _tlot-a-tlot, tlot-a-tlot, tlot-tlot-tlot-tlot, tlot-a-tlot, tlot-tlot-tlot_! I tell you, woman, it’s the grey stallion I sold to Drumdoon: it’s that and no other! Ay, by the Sorrow, it’s Drumdoon’s son that will be riding here!” By this time the horse was close by. We heard his hoofs clang above the flagstones round the well at the side of the house. Then there was a noise as of scattered stones, and a long scraping sound: then silence. Gorromalt turned and put his hand to the door. There was murder in his eyes, for all the smile, a grim terrible smile, that had come to his lips. Aunt Elspeth rose and ran to him, holding him back. The door shook. Rory the hound tore at the splinters at the base of the door, his fell again bristling, his snarling savagery horrible to hear. The pine-logs had fallen into a smouldering ash. The room was full of gloom, though the red sullen eye of the peat-glow stared through the obscurity. “Don’t be opening the door! Don’t be opening the door!” she cried, in a thin screaming voice. “What for no, woman? Let me go! Hell upon this dog--out o’ the way, Rory--get back! Down wi’ ye!” “No, no, Archibald! Wait! Wait!” Then a strange thing happened. Rory ceased, sullenly listened, and then retreated, but no longer snarling and bristling. Gorromalt suddenly staggered. “Who touched me just now?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. No one answered. “Who touched me just now? Who passed? Who slid past me?” His voice rose almost to a scream. Then, shaking off his wife, he swung the door open. There was no one there. Outside could be heard a strange sniffling and whinnying. It was the grey stallion. Gorromalt strode across the threshold. Scarcely had I time to prevent Aunt Elspeth from falling against the lintel in a corner, yet in a moment’s interval I saw that the stallion was riderless. “Archibald!” wailed his wife faintly out of her weakness. “Archibald, come back! Come back!” But there was no need to call. Archibald Campbell was not the man to fly in the face of God. He knew that no mortal rider rode that horse to its death that night. Even before he closed the door we heard the rapid, sliding, catching gallop. The horse had gone: rider or riderless I know not. He was ashy-grey. Suddenly he had grown quite still. He lifted his wife, and helped her to her own big leathern arm-chair at the other side of the ingle.