Thus far Damaris’ entire consciousness had resided in and been limited to her auditory sense; concentration being too absorbed and intense to allow room for reasoning, still less for scepticism or even astonishment.  She had watched with her ears—­as the blind watch—­desperate to interpret, instant by instant, inch by inch, this reconstructed tragedy of long-dead man and long-dead beast.  There had been no thinking round the central interest, no attempted reading of its bearing upon normal events.  Mind and imagination were fascinated by it to the exclusion of all else.  It acted as an extravagant dream acts, abrogating all known laws of cause and effect, giving logic and science the lie, negativing probability, making the untrue true, the impossible convincingly manifest.

Not, indeed, until she beheld Mary Fisher, deep-bosomed and comely, in black gown, white apron and cap, moving within those rooms downstairs—­still echoing, as they surely must, to that tumultuous and rather ghastly equine transit—­did the extraordinary character of the occurrence flash into fullness of relief.

Mary, meanwhile, set down her flat candlestick upon the big writing-table in Sir Charles’s study, lighted lamps and drew blinds and curtains.  Went into the bedroom next door and dressing-room beyond, methodically performing the evening ritual of “shutting up.”  Her shadow marched with her, as though mockingly assisting in her operations, now crouching, now leaping ahead, blotting a ceiling, extending itself upon a wall space.  Other shadows, thrown by the furniture, came forth and leapt also, pranced, skipping back into hiding as the candle-light shifted and passed.  But save this indirect admission of the immaterial and grotesque, everything showed reassuringly ordinary, the woman herself unconcerned, ignorant of disturbance.

Damaris rose from her kneeling posture upon the window-seat and, standing, lowered the sash.  Once was enough.  It was no longer incumbent upon her to listen or to look.  If these ghostly phenomena were repeated they could convey nothing more to her, nothing fresh.  They had delivered their message—­one addressed wholly and solely to herself, so she judged, since Mary had so conspicuously no suspicion of it.

Our maiden’s lips were dry.  Her heart beat in her ears.  Yet she was in no degree unnerved.  Seldom indeed had she been more mistress of her powers, self-realized and vigilant.  Nor did she feel tired any more, infirm of will and spent.  Rather was she consciously resolute to encounter and withstand events—­of what order she did not know as yet but events of moment and far-reaching result, already on the road, journeying toward her hotfoot.  They were designed to test and try her.  Would do their utmost to overwhelm, to submerge her, were she weak.  But she didn’t intend them to submerge her.  She bade weakness quit, all her young courage rising in arms.