ustling of woolly bodies, the volleying of short
breath, and that indefinable sense of bustle which massed things
produce, passing swiftly.

The sheep came on, panic-driven, voiceless in their fear, but speaking
aloud in the wildly clanging bells; they swept by the door of the
house with a sound like the rush of water; they disappeared in that
flash of sound. Old King cried, "Man, 'tis the sheep!" and flew for
his staff and shoes. Miranda followed to fetch them; but Andrew went
to the door as he was, shaking off his clinging wife, unlatched it and
let in a gale of wind. The dog shot out like a flame of fire and was
gone.

It was as if the wind which was driving the sheep was going to scour
the house. It came madly, with indescribable force; it rushed into the
house, blew the window-curtains toward the middle of the room, drove
the fire outward and set the ashes whirling like snow all about.
Andrew King staggered before it a moment, then put his head down and
beat his way out. Mabilla shuddering shrank backward to the fireplace
and crouched there, waiting. Old King came out booted and cloaked, his
staff in his hand, battled to the door and was swept up the brae upon
the gale. Miranda did not appear; so Mabilla, white and rigid, was
alone in the whirling room.

Creeping to her through the open door, holding to whatever solid thing
she could come by, entered Bessie Prawle. In all that turmoil and
chill terror she alone was hot. Her grudge was burning in her. She
could have killed Mabilla with her eyes.

But she did not, for Mabilla was in the hands of greater and stronger
powers. Before Bessie Prawle's shocked eyes she was seen rigid and
awake. She was seen to cower as to some threatening shape, then to
stiffen, to mutter with her dry lips, and to grow still, to stare with
her wide eyes, and then to see nothing. A glaze swam over her eyes;
they were open, but as the eyes of the dead.

Bessie Prawle, horror-struck, stretched out her arms to give her
shelter. All her honest humanity was reborn in her in this dreadful
hour. "My poor lass, I'll not harm ye," she was saying; but Mabilla
had begun to move. She moved as a sleep-walker, seeing but not seeing
her way; she moved as one who must, not as one who would. She went
slowly as if drawn to the open door. Bessie never tried to stop her;
she could not though she would. Slowly as if drawn she went to the
door, staring before her, pale as a cloth, rigid as a frozen thing.