up and down through the empty rooms, feeling singularly alone in the world. Buckskin, lucky Buckskin, slept. Derek looked at the familiar pictures, at the thin, aloof, china greyhound on the mantel. It was against the greyhound that Jammery's note had been propped. How long ago that seemed. How alone he was!
At last he went to bed. But he could not sleep. The house rocked. The four-poster swayed under him. He had never known such a storm. And, as he lay listening, the confused uproar resolved into definite, terrible episodes.
It seemed that he could hear the clash of two armies, who met with ring of steel and roar of lusty throats, fighting up and down the road. And, mingled with the wild uproar, came the keening of women crouched above their dead. . . . And, ere their wailing ceased, the clamor of a brazen band burst forth. Oh, the deafening discords of the horns! The thunder of the drums! And, in the far distance the women still wailing. But what had come to the clashing armies? There was no more shouting nor hurrahing. Only the stamp and pad of thousands of flying feet. They were madly running. Running! Oh the footsteps! Crunching, padding in the snow. Footsteps everywhere. The women had ceased their keening to listen. The footsteps were coming in at the gate. Hammering on the flagstones. Kicking at the door. They would have the door down yet. Terrifying, deafening uproar.
Now the footsteps were gone. The keening women gone. The bandsmen that had fallen into panic gone. Only a deep-toned humming of some far-off organ remained, singing through the hissing sleet, filling the night with melody.
To this accompaniment it seemed that the Spirit of the lake rose out of the foam, strode up the cliff, and then before the homely stone house did battle with the Spirit of Grimstone for possession of the land. Derek pictured the
