“My father sent no other message, Ben?” he asked curtly. “Aye, he did, and he seemed rare and anxious I shouldn’t forget it, like. He said he _trusted you_--just trusted you.” Rupert had kept his watch, through the sickness of the waiting-time; and at the end of it was this trumpet-call from the father who had bred him. And Simon Foster, watching him with affection’s close scrutiny, saw the scholarly, lean years slip off from the shoulders that were squared already to the coming stress. “Bar the outer gate, Simon,” he said. Then, with a soldier’s brisk attention to detail, he turned to Ben Shackleton. “How many of them?” he asked. “A score or more, so Sir Jasper said.” “Then step indoors. We need you, Ben.” Shackleton made a movement to get up to saddle again. “Nay, nay! I’ve the kine to fodder, and a wife waiting for me.” “I’m in command here,” said the master sharply. “We need you, and you say there’s no time to waste.” Simon Foster came back from drawing the stout oaken bars across the gate. “They’re riding up the gap,” he said. “I could hear their horses slipping all ways, master, as if the roads had teazed ’em; but they’re riding varry near. We haven’t a year and a day to waste in talk, though Shackleton fancies we have. Besides,” he added grimly, “the gate’s barred, and they’ll be here before you could open it and ride through.” “What’s to be done with my horse, supposing I did stay?” asked Shackleton. Like a true farmer, he was not to be hurried, and his first thought was always for his live-stock. Simon Foster snatched the bridle from his hand, went across to the stables, and was back again before Shackleton had recovered from his surprise. “That is horse-stealing, Simon, or summat like it,” grumbled the farmer. “No,” answered Simon, “it’s horse-keeping. We need you, Ben. The master spoke a true word there.” “And what’s all the moil about? I relish a square fight as well as another; it’s a bit of a holiday, like, fro’ farming peevish lands; but I like to know just what I’m fighting for. Stands to plain reason I do.” “For the honour of the Royds,” said Rupert, with sharp appeal. “Well, then, you have me, master. Just tell me what I’ve to do; I’m slow i’ my wits, but quick wi’ my hands, and always was; and I learned young to fire a musket.” “It’s a varry good habit to learn,” growled Simon Foster, “’specially when a body learns it young.” And then again he turned his head sharply. “They’ve come, I reckon, master,” he said, with stolid satisfaction.