He turned back towards the window. The rush of
air played steadily, and then in pulses, upon his
face. Then even the wind ceased; as if it, too,
were waiting. Not a sound. But silence has
a greater voice than discord or music. It seemed
to Byrne that he could tell how fast each heart was
beating.
The old man had closed his eyes again. And yet
the rigid forefinger remained raised, and the faint
smile touched at the corners of his mouth. Buck
Daniels sat lunging forward in his chair, his knees
supporting his elbows, and scowled up at the window
with a sort of sullen terror.
Then Byrne heard it—so small a voice that
at first he thought it was only a part of the silence.
It grew and grew—in a sudden burst it was
clear to every ear—the honking of the wild
geese!
And Byrne knew the picture they made. He could
see them far up in the sky—a dim triangle
of winter grey—moving with the beat of lightning
wings each in an arrowy flight north, and north, and
north. Creatures for sport all the world over;
here alone, in all the earth, in the heart of this
mountain-desert, they were in some mysterious wise
messengers. Once more the far discord showered
down upon them, died as they rose, perhaps, to a higher
level, and was heard no more.
THE COMING
Then a padding step, light, lighter than the sound
of the softest thought. It was passing near;
the faint breeze blew the sound to them, around them,
behind them. Each man felt as if some creature
were stalking him, unseen. Next—it
appeared by magic against the blue black of the night—the
head of a great wolf, quite black, shaggy, with sharply
pointed ears. And the eyes stared at them, green
eyes with lights that swirled as the flame jumped
in the throat of the lamp. For a long moment
the horror lasted. Then the head, as it had come,
disappeared, and the light, light foot fall, faded
away.
Buck Daniels had risen, now. The sound of his
whisper made them start.
“I’m going up—to my room—and
lock the door—for God’s sake—keep—him
away!”
And so he stole soundlessly away, and then they heard
the creaks which announced his progress up the stairs.
Not Buck Daniels alone. In the deadly silence
Kate rose to her feet; and the old man, the invalid—he
with the dead body and the living brain, rose from
his couch and stood as erect as a soldier on parade.
The doctor was conscious of repeating to himself,
hurriedly, a formula something like this: “The
thing which is coming is human; it cannot be more
than human; as long as it is human it is nothing to
fear; the laws of truth are irrevocably fixed; the
laws of science will not change.” Yet in
spite of this formula he was deadly cold, as if a wind
were blowing through his naked soul. It was not
fear. It was something beyond fear, and he would
not have been otherwhere for any reward. All his
mind remained poised, expectant, as the astronomer
waits for the new star which his calculations have
predicted to enter the field of his telescope.
