“We must see it through,” said McCurdie.
A silence fell upon them as they sat round by the blaze with the new-born babe wrapped in its odd swaddling clothes asleep on the pile of fur coats, and it lasted until Sir Angus McCurdie looked at his watch.
“Good Lord,” said he, “it’s twelve o’clock.”
“Christmas morning,” said Biggleswade.
“A strange Christmas,” mused Boyne.
McCurdie put up his hand. “There it is again! The beating of wings.” And they listened like men spellbound. McCurdie kept his hand uplifted, and gazed over their heads at the wall, and his gaze was that of a man in a trance, and he spoke:
“Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given——”
Boyne sprang from his chair, which fell behind him with a crash.
“Man—what the devil are you saying?”
Then McCurdie rose and met Biggleswade’s eyes staring at him through the great round spectacles, and met the eyes of Boyne. A pulsation like the beating of wings stirred the air.