"Have any of the Wildwater dogs turned on you of late?" she asked, with a sudden glance at him.
"Nay, lass! There's no key to the trouble there."
"Are you sure, sir? You recall how one of the farm-dogs ran mad a year ago, and a farm-hand, trying to kill him, was bitten on the arm—and again on the hand as he tried to snatch a hair as a cure against the mad-sickness? He, too feared water——"
"Ay, and died of a sickness of the body, plain to be felt and known. But what of me, girl? 'Tis a mind-sickness, this—a dumb, soft-stepping, noiseless thing that flees if one stands up to it, only to come back, and snarl, and grin, the moment the heart fails for weariness. Come, we'll get us home, Janet. It has eased me a little to tell thee of it—haply thou'lt help me make a last big fight."
"God willing, sir," she murmured, as she turned to walk beside him.
Once only he broke silence on the way to Wildwater. Stopping, he bared his throat to the moonlight, and bade her look well at it, and watched with anxious eyes as she obeyed.
"Canst—canst see the teeth-marks there?" he whispered.
"'Tis smooth, sir, without a scratch on 't."
"Pass thy hand over—lightly. I can feel the deep wound burn and sting—surely thy fingers can feel the pit."
"There is no wound, grandfather—no wound at all."