“You’re a set of fools,” said the marquis, “—the whole kit of you!”
“That’s what I say, my lord. I don’t know what to do with them, stericking and screaming. Mrs Courthope is trying her best with them; but it’s my belief she’s about as bad herself.”
The marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank another, then walked to the door. When the butler opened it, a strange sight met his eyes. All the servants in the house, men and women, Duncan and Malcolm alone excepted, had crowded after the butler, every one afraid of being left behind; and there gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces in the light of the great hall-fire. Demon stood in front, his mane bristling, and his eyes flaming. Such was the silence, that the marquis heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting of soft hands against the windows. He stood for a moment, more than half-enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building a far-off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. Some of the men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the women screamed outright, and that set the marquis cursing.
Duncan and Malcolm had but just entered the bedroom of the latter, when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a moment deafened them. So agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal terror was it, that Malcolm stood aghast, and Duncan started to his feet with responsive outcry. But Malcolm at once recovered himself.
“Bide here till I come back,” he whispered, and hurried noiselessly out.
In a few minutes he returned—during which all had been still. “Noo, daddy,” he said, “I’m gaein’ to drive in the door o’ the neist room. There’s some deevilry at wark there. Stan’ ye i’ the door, an’ ghaist or deevil ’at wad win by ye, grip it, an’ haud on like Demon the dog.”
“She will so, she will so!” muttered Duncan in a strange tone. “Ochone! that she’ll not pe hafing her turk with her! Ochone! Ochone!”
Malcolm took the key of the wizard’s chamber from his chest, and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. In a moment he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it, and burst it open. A light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away through the gloom. It was no shadow, however, for, dashing itself against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head, and, turning at bay, revealed the face of Mrs Catanach.
In the door stood the blind piper, with outstretched arms, and hands ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust—an enmity of all mingled kinds.
Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned, Mrs Catanach saw only the white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness.