There was a silence, broken only by the wind’s fret, by the ripple of a neighbouring stream whose floods were racing banktop high. With sharp insistence, one memory came to Nance. She recalled how, weeks ago, she had left Rupert and his brother to their fight, had ridden down to Demaine House with Will, had found her father eager as a boy because Oliphant of Muirhouse had brought news of the Rising. She recalled, too, how Underwood had seemed cold, how he had followed her out into the hall and answered her distrust of him. And she had listened to his pleading--had bidden him come before the month was out, if he were leal--_if he were leal_. The moor, and the frost that made rose-pink and amber of the sunset sky, were very cold to Nance just now. If she had felt distrust of this big, loose-built ruffler, she had been willing enough to let first love cover up her doubts. She had cared for what he might have been, and had been concerned each day to hide the traces of what, in sober fact, he was. For a moment it seemed to her that pride, and strength, and all, had left her. It was hard and bitter to know that something warmer, gayer than she had known as yet, had gone from her, not to return. Then courage came to her again, borrowed from the hard-riding days that had fathered many generations of her race. “Mr. Underwood,” she said, not looking at him, “you picked up my kerchief not long ago--do you remember?--and asked to keep it.” Even now he could not rid himself of the easy hunting days, the easy conquests, which had built up a wall of self-security about him. “You’ll give it me before the month is out, Nance? You promised it,” he said, edging his horse nearer hers. Nance took a kerchief from the pocket of her riding-coat. “Why, yes,” she said, “I keep my word. You may claim it.” He took it, put it to his lips, all with the over-done effrontery of a groom who finds the master’s daughter stooping to him. “I shall keep it,” he said--“until the next true Rising comes.” “Yes,” said Nance submissively. “You may keep it, Mr. Underwood.” “Nay, call me Will!” he blundered on. “Listen, Nance. When I spoke of prudence just now, I--I lied. You stung me into saying what I did not mean. There were reasons kept me here. You’ll believe me, surely? Urgent reasons. And here I am, eating my heart out while other men are taking happy risks.” Nance glanced once at him. His voice was persuasive as of old; he had the same easy seat in saddle, the handsome, dash-away figure that had given him a certain romantic place of his own among his intimates; but there was something new. She understood, with sudden humiliation and self-pity, how slight a thing first love may be. And, because he had forced this knowledge on her, she would not spare him. “You may keep it,” she repeated. “The enemy may come to Windyhough, and you will need a flag of truce, as the old men and the disabled will--and my kerchief--it will serve as well as another.”