Rupert, with a body not robust and a twisted ankle that was still in bandages, was holding fast to his allegiance. His mother, less pampered and less querulous, grew each day a more sacred trust. Each day, as she watched him go about the house, he surprised more constantly that look of the Madonna which stood out against the background of her pretty, faded face. He had something to defend at last, something that played tender, stifled chords about that keyboard which we call the soul. He was alone among the women and the old men; but he was resolute. And then there came a night when he had patrolled the house, had looked out through his window, before getting to bed, for a glance at the hilltops, white under a shrouded moon. He was tired, was seeking an answer to his faith. And, instead, a darkness came about him, a denial of all he had hoped for, prayed and striven for. Hope went by him. Trust in God grew dim and shadowy. There was no help, in this world or another, and he was a weak fool, as he had always been, drifting down the path of the east wind. He recalled, with pitiless clearness, how he had played eavesdropper before the Rising men rode out, had heard his father say that no attack on Windyhough was possible, that the guns and ammunition were nursery toys he had left his heir to play with in his absence. Rupert--namesake of a cavalier whose name had never stood for wisdom, but always for high daring--stood with bowed shoulders, unmanned and desolate. He did not know that the wise, older men he reverenced were compelled to stand, time and time, as he was doing, with black night and negation at their elbow. He knew only that it was cold and dark, with no help at hand. It is moments such as this that divide true men from the feeble-hearted; and Rupert lifted his head, and, though he only half believed it, he told himself that dawn would follow this midwinter night. And that night he slept like a child, and dreamed that all was well. And he woke the next day to find Simon Foster watching by his bedside, patient and trusty as the dogs whose instinct is toward loyalty. “You’ve slept, maister!” said Simon. “By th’ Heart, I never saw a body sleep so sound.” “We must patrol the house, Simon. The attack is coming--and we’ll not be late for it, after all these days of waiting.” “Who says the attack is coming?” growled the other. “I dreamed it--the clearest dream I ever had, Simon.” But Simon shook his head. He had no faith in dreams. CHAPTER IX THE STAY-AT-HOMES