It was all quick in the saying, this talk of folk who heard disaster sing down the bitter wind; but Nance, looking on and seeking some forward grip of life since Will Underwood had fallen by the way, was aware that Rupert had sounded the rally-call when all seemed lost. He was no longer scholarly, unpractical; from the background, with the murky gloaming round him, he was a figure dominant among them. And from that background he stepped forward, lightly, with self-assurance, because there was no pageantry about this game of sorrow, but only the quick need to take hold of the every-day routine of hardship. “It might happen that the retreat came up by way of Windyhough?” he asked, straightening the scholarly stoop of his shoulders. Oliphant looked gravely at him--measured him, with an eye trained to quick judgment of a man--and dared not lie to this son of Sir Jasper’s who stayed here among the women, seeking better work. “There’s no chance of it,” he said gruffly. “They are taking the Langton road. I--I am sorry, Rupert. I wish the thick of it were coming this way. You’re in need of exercise, my lad.” And Rupert laughed suddenly. “Mr. Oliphant,” he said, with his quiet, disarming humour, “I’ve had drill enough--a useless sort of drill--and I’m praying these days for assault, and musketry, and siege--anything to save us stay-at-homes from sleep.” Oliphant looked down at the years of his own misshapen boyhood, saw himself a weakling, unproven, hidden by the mists of his own high desires. And he gripped Rupert’s hand, said farewell to Lady Royd, and got to saddle. “Is that all?” asked Rupert, with sharp, disconsolate dismay. “Take me with you, sir. There’s a broken-winded horse or two still left in stable.” “I obey orders,” snapped Oliphant, with brusque command. “You will do no less, and Sir Jasper was exact in his wish that you should guard the women here.” Rupert was sick at heart, restless to be in the open, lest faith and courage were killed outright by these stifled days at Windyhough. “They’re safe, you tell me,” he said, yielding to the queer, gusty temper that few suspected in him. “Then I’m free to breathe again. With you, or without you, I shall join the Rising at long last.” Oliphant’s heart went out to the mettle of this ill-balanced, stormy lad. For there are many who are keen to follow victory at the gallop; but Oliphant was a man who knew his world--knew it through all its tricks of speech and manner--and he had met few who were eager to ride out along the unsung, unhonoured road where retreat goes slowly through the mire.