“I cannot see him, Baptiste,” she said presently, lowering her hand from her eyes.

“Neither can I, wife; neither can I. Let us go into the house and wait.”  He laid his hand persuasively on her shoulder.  As she turned the moon shone full in her face.  She stopped and looked at it for a few moments like one fascinated, then slowly raised her hand and pointed at it.

“Baptiste,” she said in an awed voice, with the superstitious light again in her eyes, “do you remember once before when it was as bright as this?”

He tried to draw her toward the door, but she resisted, and looking hurriedly up into his face, said: 

“Ah; I see you, too, remember!  It was the night Arsene Bolduc went out never to return.  The devil is surely abroad this night, and our Pierre is not yet home.”

“Talk not of the evil one while the moon shines full in your face, wife, for it is an evil omen.”

Quickly he drew down her hand, which was still pointing upward, then put his hand over her eyes to shut out the sight of the moon, made the sign of the cross, drew her into the house and shut the door.

Once more they seated themselves near the stove and began their anxious wait for the erring one.  For nearly half an hour they sat without speaking, but at short intervals glanced at the clock, whose loud ticking broke the stillness of the night with painful distinctness.  Every relentless tick jarred on the nerves of the aged watchers.  Suddenly they started to their feet with blanched faces, looked at each other, and apprehensively bent their heads in a listening attitude.  Again there came floating on the still air the mournful sound that had startled them—­the weird wail of a dog!  A marvellous change came over the mother as she listened; the look of fear vanished and was succeeded by one of intense determination.  The change in her was so great that one would surely have thought that she had partaken of the fabled elixir of life; her bent shoulders seemed to grow straight once more, while her steps, as she ran to the door and wrenched it open, were as firm and elastic as those of a young woman.  For a moment she stood in the open door and looked:  One glance was sufficient—­coming toward the house across the field was a large hound, which was baying the moon.  Firmly she picked up a knife from the kitchen table, thrust another into the hand of Baptiste, and drew him to the door.

“See, Baptiste!” she said, standing erect and pointing the knife at the dog, “I am right; the curse has fallen, as I feared it would.  The devil has turned our Pierre into a hound, and the beast is coming this way.  Even a scratch, if it draws blood, will be sufficient to release him from the curse and restore him to us again.  The dog must not escape us; if it does, our son is lost to us forever.  Pray the holy Mother to help us now, husband.”

She made a weird picture as she stood in the open door, with her thin white hair streaming about her face, grasping the knife, which glittered ominously in the moonlight.