and said faintly, "It's the fourth time up to now. I thought it was
fancy."

"I have felt it, too," said Doyne. "It is the Angel of Death." And he
pointed to the room where the dead man and woman lay.

"For God's sake let us get away from this," cried Biggleswade.

"And leave the child to die, like the others?" said Doyne.

"We must see it through," said McCurdie.

* * * * *

A silence fell upon them as they sat round in the blaze with the
new-born babe wrapped in its odd swaddling clothes asleep on the pile of
fur coats, and it lasted until Sir Angus McCurdie looked at his watch.

"Good Lord," said he, "it's twelve o'clock."

"Christmas morning," said Biggleswade.

"A strange Christmas," mused Doyne.

McCurdie put up his hand. "There it is again! The beating of wings." And
they listened like men spellbound. McCurdie kept his hand uplifted, and
gazed over their heads at the wall, and his gaze was that of a man in a
trance, and he spoke:

"Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given--"