w she looked at me with a piteous terror. The wind soughed
and died away, and in the pause we heard them plainly, wheels on the
gravel outside that stopped at the door.

"It is the death-coach," my grandmother said. I rather saw than heard
her say it, for her pale lips seemed incapable of speech.

"No, no," I cried. "It is nothing of the sort. It is the messenger I am
expecting. I have been listening for him all the evening. Be quiet! He
is coming for good: to help us."

But she did not seem to hear me. She had thrown both her arms about my
grandfather, as though to ward off what was coming. The action awoke
him, and he stood up tall and commanding as I remembered him of old, as
I had not seen him for many a day.

"What is the matter, Maeve?" he asked. "You are with me. There is
nothing to fear."

I noticed that the wound had opened, and his white hair was stained with
blood.

"It is the death-coach," cried my grandmother.

"What matter, if it comes for both of us?" he said.

"It is not the death-coach," I cried. "It is a friend, some one come to
our help. Look at Dido! She would be frightened if it were the
death-coach. See how she listens!"

Above the crying of the storm there came a tremendous rat-tat on the
knocker of the hall door.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE MESSENGER

My grandfather made a step or two towards the door, but my grandmother,
who seemed distraught with terror, would not let him go, but clung to
him the closer. Dido had gone to the door of the room and was barking to
get out. She was running up and down in a frenzy of impatience. The
tremendous knocking still went on above the noise of the wind.

"It is absurd," I cried, trying to make my grandmother hear; "did any
one ever know the death-coach to come knocking at the door?"

But she was too terrified to hear me. So I let her be, and, snatching
one of the candles from the table, I went out into the hall. I knew
quite well that I should not be able to draw back the heavy bolts, but,
while I looked at them helplessly, half-deafened by the incessant
knocking of the great iron knocker on the oak door, old Neil came down
the stairs muttering, as was his way.

"First I thought it was a ghost," he said, "but no ghost ever knocked
like that. God send he brings good news, whoever he is! Glory be to God,
he's in a divil of a hurry to get in."

I held my candle for him to see, and the knocking ceased while he undid
the bolts. Dido was whining