The reason of this he found was not far to seek. Behind the latticed glazing of every window the strong shutters were closed and bolted, though it was now eleven o’clock of a sunny, brisk morning.
He dismounted and tried the front door. It was fastened also. On the echo of his angry summons fell the sound of a light step within.
“Who are you?” cried Darda’s voice shrilly through the keyhole.
“Open, girl! What is the meaning of this?”
She drew the bolts reluctantly—deliberately. In his impatience to enter he almost threw her down.
“What is the meaning of this?” he repeated.
She had backed into a shadowy angle of the hall, and thence looked at him with a sullen defiance. He had to again put his question, and harshly.
“Oh!” she said, nodding at him with an angry look, “what trouble hasn’t your coming brought on us!”
“Now,” he said peremptorily, “explain yourself.”
“We lived at peace with the shadows and the spirits before,” she answered. “Since you came they take to worrying us; and they have made his face like death.”