A little time elapsed; Annot Cheyne did not return: the laird became anxious and impatient, and as all the household were now abed he followed her.
The sky was cloudless now, and the white moonlight fell aslant in silvery sheets over the barbican wall, and in the flood of it that streamed through the outer archway he saw his wife caressing the gigantic hound.
'Annot!' cried he, impatiently. She made no answer, but stooped and again caressed the dog.
At that moment a dark cloud passed suddenly and quickly over the face of the moon, involving the archway in blackness and obscurity; and the baying of the hound was heard, but, as it seemed, at a vast distance.
When, a minute after, the moon emerged from its shadow, the radiance streamed through the archway as before; but there was no one visible—the lady and the hound had disappeared!
'She was never seen again,' said Alison in conclusion; 'but as for the hound, that came and went with the tempest, it has appeared, or has been said to have done so, when—when evil was near the Cheynes of Essilmont; and, whether the story of its appearance was fable or fancy, the evil certainly came in some fashion or other.'
'It is the offspring of vulgar superstition or fevered fancy. How can you think of old-world Scotch nonsense in this age, Alison?' said Bevil Goring.
'If a boding of evil it is, I hope it menaces me, and not poor papa,' said Alison, down whose cheeks the unseen tears were streaming in the dark, 'and as for Lord Cadbury——'
'Don't speak about him—don't think about him!' interrupted Bevil, impatiently. 'And yet,' he added, 'if this old fellow loves you, I do not wonder at it.'
'Why?'