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.
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