By this time the horse was close by. We heard his hoofs clang above the flagstones round the well at the side of the house. Then there was a noise as of scattered stones, and a long scraping sound: then silence.
Gorromalt turned and put his hand to the door. There was murder in his eyes, for all the smile, a grim terrible smile, that had come to his lips.
Aunt Elspeth rose and ran to him, holding him back. The door shook. Rory the hound tore at the splinters at the base of the door, his fell again bristling, his snarling savagery horrible to hear. The pine-logs had fallen into a smouldering ash. The room was full of gloom, though the red sullen eye of the peat-glow stared through the obscurity.
“Don’t be opening the door! Don’t be opening the door!” she cried, in a thin screaming voice.
“What for no, woman? Let me go! Hell upon this dog—out o’ the way, Rory—get back! Down wi’ ye!”
“No, no, Archibald! Wait! Wait!”
Then a strange thing happened.
Rory ceased, sullenly listened, and then retreated, but no longer snarling and bristling.
Gorromalt suddenly staggered.
“Who touched me just now?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.