"What is it?" I asked, in a subdued voice.
"It's the sound of a man running towards us," she answered, and then,
suddenly dropping the last semblance of self-command, she tell upon her
knees beside the table and began praying aloud with that frenzied
earnestness which intense, overpowering fear can produce, breaking off
now and again into half-hysterical whimperings.
I could distinguish the sound clearly enough now to know that her quick,
feminine perception had not deceived her, and that it was indeed caused
by a running man.
On he came, and on down the high road, his footfalls ringing out clearer
and sharper every moment. An urgent messenger he must be, for he
neither paused nor slackened his pace.
The quick, crisp rattle was changed suddenly to a dull, muffled murmur.
He had reached the point where sand had been recently laid down for a
hundred yards or so. In a few moments, however, he was back on hard
ground again and his flying feet came nearer and ever nearer.
He must, I reflected, be abreast of the head of the lane now. Would he
hold on? Or would he turn down to Branksome?
The thought had hardly crossed my mind when I heard by the difference of
the sound that the runner had turned the corner, and that his goal was
beyond all question the laird's house.
Rushing down to the gate of the lawn, I reached it just as our visitor
dashed it open and fell into my arms. I could see in the moonlight that
it was none other than Mordaunt Heatherstone.
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