“Ay, and what Gael that you know will be for giving you his surname like that?”
Alasdair had no word for that. He rose to put some more peats on the fire. When he had done this, he gave a cry.
The whiteness that was on the mother’s hair was now in the face. There was no blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light in the old, dim eyes was like water after frost.
He took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. He let it go, and it fell straight by the chair, stiff as the cromak he carried when he was with the sheep.
“O my God and my God,” he whispered, white with the awe, and the bitter cruel pain.
Then it was that he heard a knocking at the door.
“Who is there?” he cried hoarsely.
“Open, and let me in.” It was a low, sweet voice; but was that gray hour the time for a welcome?
“Go, but go in peace, whoever you are. There is death here.”
“Open, and let me in.”