"And that is Barguest, grandfather," said Janet, creeping closer to him.
"That, lass, is Barguest. That is why the Marsh folk take Wayne and the Dog for their cry. The hound that slew old Anthony has dwelt with the Waynes ever since; no peril comes nigh them, but he must warn them of it: and sometimes he—" The Lean Man stopped, and put a hand to his throat, and glanced at the fingers as if he looked for blood on them.
She gathered a little courage from his lack of it. "The tale is old as yonder hills, and Barguest walks in legends only. Is it not so?" she said, but with a tremour in her voice.
"I said as much, Janet, for nigh on three-score years. I cast out the old dead fears, and laughed at the Waynes and their guardian hound—and thou see'st to what I have come at last. It began when I nailed the hand above the Marsh doorway; when Nanny Witherlee—God curse her—told me I had crossed Barguest on the threshold. Still I laughed, though she has the second-sight, they say; but the fear even then ran chill through me. Thou know'st the rest, girl—how I have fought it, and cast it off, and been conquered in the end. But none knows—not even thou, dear lass—what sweat of terror has dripped from me by nights."
"I have guessed," she answered softly, "and have grieved for you more than ever I told you of."
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——"