‘Past ten o’clock,’ said Larry, ‘and the rain’s falling heavily. I’m concerned to leave ye here, in a place so lonesome!’
‘The Lord will watch over me!’ answered Moya, crossing herself.
‘Amin!’ said the man. ‘Then I’ll say good-night!’
‘Good-night!’
With a dubious shake of the head, Larry disappeared, and immediately afterwards she heard the sound of his retreating footsteps below. He was whistling as he went, doubtless to keep up his courage, for, like most of his class, he was superstitious. Presently all was silent, save for the dismal murmur of wind and water. Left alone, Moya sat on the bedside, looking at vacancy and thinking. Presently, with a deep sigh, she rose, placed the lighted candle for safety in a tin bowl on the floor close to the bedside, and then, kneeling down, covered her face with her hands and prayed.
For a long time she remained thus, praying silently. The wind howled, and the water roared, but she did not stir. When at last she rose, her fair face looked calm and peaceful, as if the hand of an angel had been placed upon her suffering brow. Then she threw herself on the bed, and after a time fell asleep.
How long she slept she never knew; but she was wearied out, and her sleep was sound. Suddenly, with a start of terror, she awakened. The candle had gone out, and the place was in total darkness. As she lay trembling and listening, she heard, above the moan of the elements, the sound of something moving in the room below, and saw, through the trapdoor, a gleam like the light from a lanthorn.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried.
There was no answer, but the light immediately disappeared.
Moya was not superstitious, and much sorrow had given her unusual courage. She sat up in bed, listening, and heard again a sound from below—this time like retreating footsteps.