“Gi’e me,” said Martha, with bewildering tenderness, “the end of all this Rising trouble, and us two in a farm together, wi’ a churn to work at, and an inglenook to sit by when the day’s work is over wi’. I’d not sell that farm I’ve dreamed of, Simon, for all your bonnie Prince’s love-locks.” “Well, as for love-locks,” said the other, his thoughts still busier with war than peace, “he has none so many left these days. He’s a plain man, riding troubled roads; and he carries himself like a man, they say, or near thereby.” Martha lifted her lanthorn suddenly to his face. “Aye, you carry the ‘far’ look,” she said jealously. “Cattle i’ the byre, the quiet lowing o’ them, and a hearth-place warm and ready for ye--they’re windle-straws to ye just now, my lad.” And Simon laughed. “I’d like one straight-up fight, I own, before I settle down. It’s i’ the blood, ye see. I carried a pike i’ the last Rising, and killed one here and there, and took my wounds. A man no way forgets, Martha, the young, pleasant days. And there’s danger near the house, if all Mr. Oliphant said be true.” “Well, gang in and meet it, then,” snapped Martha, “if your stiffened joints will let you.” She was sore with jealousy, though Simon’s battle-hunger was her only rival, and struck at random, cruelly, as women do at these times, because God made them so. And Simon, because men are made so, winced, and recovered, and said never a word as he crossed to the kitchen door. “Simon!” she called, with late-found penitence. He did not turn his head, but strode indoors, through the running banter that met him by the way, and went upstairs to find Rupert standing by the loophole that overlooked the main doorway. “At your post, master?” he said dryly. Rupert turned sharply. “You disturbed a dream of mine,” he said, in his well-bred, scholarly voice. “I was fancying men were out in the moonlit courtyard, that I aimed straight, Simon, and shot a few of those black rats from Hanover.” Simon chuckled soberly. He liked to hear his favourite lapse from the orderly speech that was his usual habit. “They’ll come, sure enough,” he said gruffly. “We’ve waited over-long, you and me, to miss some chance o’ frolic at the last.” Rupert, with his large, royal air, disdaining always the lean, scholarly form he carried, laughed gently. “My faith is weak to-night, Simon. So little happens, and God knows I’ve prayed for open battle.” “Well, bide,” said Simon. “I’ve my own fancy, too, though I was never what you might call a prayerful man, that the battle’s coming up this way. My old wounds are plaguing me, master, like to burn me up; and you may say it’s th’ change i’ the weather, if it pleases ye, but I think different.”