But the dog would not be still. His sullen fear grew worse. Suddenly he sidled and lay on his belly, now snarling, now howling, his blind eyes distended, his nostrils quivering, his flanks quaking. My uncle rose and stared at the dog.
“What ails the beast?” he asked angrily, looking now at Rory, now at us. “Has any one come in? Has any one been at the door?”
“No one, Archibald.”
“What have you been doing, Elspeth?”
“Nothing.”
“Woman, I heard your voice droning at your prayers. Ah, I see—you have been at some of your sians and eolais again. Sure, now, one would be thinking you would have less foolishness, and you with the greyness upon your years. What eolas did she say, lass?”
I told him. “Aw, silly woman that she is, the eolas an t-Snaithnean! madness and folly!… Where is Morag?”
“In bed.” I said this with truth in my eyes. God’s forgiveness for that good lie!
“And it’s time you were there also, and you too, Elspeth. Come now, no more of this foolishness. We have nothing to wait for. Why are we waiting here?”
At that moment Rory became worse than ever. I thought the poor blind beast would take some dreadful fit. Foam was on his jaws; his hair bristled. He had sidled forward, and crouched low. We saw him look again and again towards the blank space to his right, as if, blind though he was, he saw some one there, some one that gave him fear, but no longer a fierce terror. Nay, more than once we saw him swish his tail, and sniff as though recognisingly. But when he turned his head towards the door his sullen fury grew, and terror shook upon every limb. It was now that Gorromalt was speaking.