The wind swept down from the moors with a snarl that set the windows shaking. And Rupert, without a backward glance, went into the hall and opened the main door. The wind came yelping in, powdering the threshold with driven sleet and chilling him to the bone. He was aware only of heart-sickness, of the fragrance that was Nance Demaine, of his need to get out into the open road; and there was something in the lash of the sleet across his face that was friendly as the moors he loved. And as he stood there he heard the _tippety-tap_ of hoofs, far down the bridle-road that led to Windyhough. And hope, a sudden vivid hope, returned to him. He had not needed the warm, scented parlour, the songs of old allegiance; but, to the heart of him, he was eager for this music of a hard-riding man who brought news, maybe, of Stuart deeds. _Tippety-tap, tappety-tip_, the sound of hoofs came intermittently between the wind-bursts, and it seemed now to be very near the gate. While he waited, his head bent eagerly toward the track, Lady Royd came downstairs after bidding her spaniel good-night, shivered as the wind swept through the hall, and ran forward fretfully when she saw Rupert standing in the doorway. “My dear, is it not cold enough already in the house?” she complained. “You need not let the wind in through open doors.” “Listen, mother!” he said, not turning his head. “There’s a horseman riding fast. He is bringing news.” “Oh, you are fanciful. This Hunter’s Wind always sent your wits astray, Rupert. You heard too many nursery-tales of the Ghostly Hunt, and Gabriel’s Hounds, and all their foolish superstitions.” “I hear a rider coming up with news,” said Rupert obstinately, moving out into the courtyard. “It may be Oliphant of Muirhouse.” Simon Foster, at this time, was just outside the gate, working to the last edge of dusk to get in a few more barrow-loads of wood for the indoor fires. Not all the scoldings of the other servants had persuaded him to so necessary a bit of work, but Martha had, when she drew a tearful picture of the cold kitchen they would have to sit in to-night if he failed them. There were barely logs enough, it seemed, to feed the rest of the house, and the kitchen must go fireless. And Simon, with steady contempt of household labour when he longed to be out in the open fight, had grumbled his way to the pile of tree-trunks that littered the outside of the courtyard. “And I thought myself a fighting man,” he muttered, sawing and chopping with a speed born, not of zeal, but of ill-temper; “and the end of it all is just bringing wood in, so that silly wenches can sit up late and gossip over a wasteful fire. Well, life’s as it’s made, I reckon, but I’m varry thankful I had no hand i’ the making.”