I heard Neil Doherty bolt and bar the hall door on his way to bed and I knew then that it must be eleven.  There were many things to think of.  To-morrow the preparations for the wedding must all be put a stop to.  The presents must be returned.  There was so much to be done, so many things to be cancelled.  I wondered when and how Garret Dawson’s blow would fall.  He was one to seek an opportunity of doing it publicly.  That it would fall I had no doubt.  There was no relenting behind that face of granite.

Well, for to-night the old souls might sleep.  To-morrow there would be Mary Champion to stand by them.  I did not yet dare to think of the joy that was coming to me from over the world.  It would be another blow to them that I loved Anthony Cardew.

Also through my thoughts there came the face of Richard Dawson, and I wondered if he was somewhere out in the night.  I did not feel that the house to which he was to have brought me a bride could contain him that night.  What was he doing?  Where had he gone for consolation?  My pity for him and my remorse were great.

A coal fell out of the fire with a sudden noise, and the displaced coals fell in, sending up a big shower of sparks.  The storm was at its height.  It seemed to shake the solid house.  And suddenly my grandmother awoke.

“Bawn, Bawn,” she said, “I dreamt that your grandfather was dead and it was terrible.”

At the moment my grandfather opened his eyes.

“I am very tired,” he said—­“very, very tired and old.  If Luke is coming he ought to be here soon.  Why is he not here to protect us?”

There came a sound above the crying of the wind.  My grandmother had been leaning tenderly over her husband who seemed to have sunk back into his sleep; now 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!”