There came a sound above the crying of the wind. My grandmother had been leaning tenderly over her husband who seemed to have sunk back into his sleep; now she looked at me with a piteous terror. The wind soughed and died away, and in the pause we heard them plainly, wheels on the gravel outside that stopped at the door.
"It is the death-coach," my grandmother said. I rather saw than heard her say it, for her pale lips seemed incapable of speech.
"No, no," I cried. "It is nothing of the sort. It is the messenger I am expecting. I have been listening for him all the evening. Be quiet! He is coming for good: to help us."
But she did not seem to hear me. She had thrown both her arms about my grandfather, as though to ward off what was coming. The action awoke him, and he stood up tall and commanding as I remembered him of old, as I had not seen him for many a day.
"What is the matter, Maeve?" he asked. "You are with me. There is nothing to fear."
I noticed that the wound had opened, and his white hair was stained with blood.
"It is the death-coach," cried my grandmother.
"What matter, if it comes for both of us?" he said.
"It is not the death-coach," I cried. "It is a friend, some one come to our help. Look at Dido! She would be frightened if it were the death-coach. See how she listens!"
Above the crying of the storm there came a tremendous rat-tat on the knocker of the hall door.