Suddenly the dog made a leap forward—a terrible bristling wolf he seemed to me, though no wolf had I ever seen, or imagined any more fearsome, than Rory, now.
He dashed himself against the door, snarling and mouthing, with his snout nosing the narrow slip at the bottom.
Aunt Elspeth and I shook with fear. My uncle was death-white, but stood strangely brooding. He had his right elbow upon his breast, and supported it with his left arm, while with his right hand he plucked at his beard.
“For sure,” he said at last, with an effort to seem at ease; “for sure the dog is fëy with his age and his blindness.” Then, more slowly still, “And if that were not so, it might look as though he had the fear on him, because of some one who strove to come in.”
“It is Muireall,” I whispered, scarce above my breath.
“No,” said Aunt Elspeth, and the voice of her now was as though it had come out of the granite all about us, cold and hard as that. “No! Muireall is already in the room.”
We both turned and looked at her. She sat quite still, on the chair betwixt the fire and the table. Her face was rigid, ghastly, but her eyes were large and wild.
A look first of fear, then almost of tenderness, came into her husband’s face.
“Hush, Elspeth,” he said, “that is foolishness.”
“It is not foolishness, Archibald,” she resumed in the same hard, unemotional voice, but with a terrible intensity. “Man, man, because ye are blind, is there no sight for those who can see?”