Goldstein’s men had ridden the last mile of their journey in evil temper. The track was rough, full of steep hills and sharp, dangerous corners that rendered it difficult enough in a dry season; in this weather, and in the snowy, muddled light, it seemed impassable to horsemen used only to flat country. They were hungry, moreover, and wet to the skin, and their only achievement so far was to lose the first fugitive they had pursued since Derby town was left behind. Goldstein himself was thankful for one thing only--that this lonely track had no byways opening out on either hand. The road, twist as it would, kept to its single line, showing them no choice of route in a country unknown and difficult. It seemed interminable, this travelling at a slow, uneasy trot over broken ground; but, just as he began to fear that his men would mutiny outright, he looked up the rise ahead and saw lights twinkling through the moonlit storm of snow. The lights were many, blinking down on him from a house that surely, by the length of its front, was one of quality. “We’re home, my lads,” he said, with a sharp laugh of relief. “That yokel lied about the distance.” “Time we were,” snarled one of the troopers, with a rough German oath. Goldstein did not heed, but slipped from saddle and put a hand to the courtyard gate. When he found it barred, he thrust his heavy bulk against it. It did not give to his weight. And this daunted him a little; for he had not looked for resistance of any sort, once they had reached the end of this long, hilly road. He had pictured, indeed, a house of women, with only the Prince and Sir Jasper to stand against them, a swift surprise, and after that food and licence and good liquor to reward them for the hardships of the day. He kicked the gate impatiently, and cried to those within to open; and the dogs shut up in kennel answered him with long, running howls. Rupert standing with Simon Foster on the threshold of the porch, felt gaiety step close to his elbow, like a trusted friend. He crossed the yard and stood just this side the gateway. “Who knocks?” he asked. “The King,” snapped Goldstein. “You will be more explicit,” said Rupert, with a touch of the old scholarly disdain. “By your voice, I think you come from Hanover. We serve the Stuart here.” Through the spite of the falling wind, through his weariness of mind and body, Goldstein knew that a gentleman stood on the far side of this gateway. And breeding, in a farm-hand or a king, disturbed his sordid outlook on this life. “You’ll not serve him long. Where’s Sir Jasper Royd?” “Somewhere on the open road, following his Prince. I am his son, and master here, at your service, till he returns.”