"I heard the Hound's voice in the lane just now," she whispered. "There's trouble coming on us, Rolf—more trouble—I never heard his step go pattering down the road so plain."
"Didst never hear the water try its new trick, thou mean'st. I was a fool to let thee go and nurse thy fancies in such a spot," said her lover roughly. But his eyes had another tale to tell, and across his brow a deep line of foreboding showed itself.
"Fancies go as soon as thought of, and naught comes of them—but when did I hear Barguest in an idle hour?" she said. "Dear, I am ashamed—but—thou canst not hold me close enough—hark. There's something at the door—a whining, Rolf, and the scrape of paws against the oak——"
"Ay, 'tis Barguest," said Nanny Witherlee, stepping soft across the polished boards and resting one hand on the bier.
"There's naught, save a wet wind sobbing through the firs," growled Wayne of Cranshaw.
"Is there not? What say ye to that, Mistress? Ye an' me know Barguest when we hear him, an' 'tis as I said to th' young Maister awhile back. There's sorrow brewing thick, an' th' Brown Dog hes come to bid ye look to pistol-primings an' th' like. He knaws, poor beast, an' he's scratting at th' door this minute to ease his mind by telling ye."
"Get to bed, Nell," said Wayne of Cranshaw quietly; "when Nanny falls to boggart-talk, and the maid who listens is half mad with sorrow——"
"Tales is tales, Maister Wayne," broke in Nanny, "an' I wod scare no poor less wi' lies at sich a time—but Barguest is more nor a tale, an' I should know, seeing th' years I've bided here at Marsh. I mind th' neet when Mistress Nell's mother war ta'en, ten year agone, it war just th' same—th' Brown Dog came pattering right up to th' door-stun, an'——"
"God rest thee for the daftest fool in Marshcotes," cried Wayne of Cranshaw, as he saw Nell go ashen-grey and all but fall. And then he led the girl out, and helped her to the stair-top.
"There'll be one to watch the bier till dawn?" she asked wearily, as he bade her good-night.