THE master turned from the doorway to find the women-servants and old Nat, the shepherd, crowded at the far end of the hall. They were agape with mingled fear and curiosity, and they were chattering like magpies. “We’ll be murdered outright,” said the kitchen-maid, her pertness gone. “Aye,” wept the housekeeper, “and me that has prayed, day in and day out for fifty years, that I’d die easy and snuglike i’ my bed. There’s something not modest in dying out o’ bed, I always did say.” The master flashed round on them; and, without a word said, they obeyed the new air of him, and crept shamefacedly along the corridor. Only Nat stood his ground--Nat, who was old beyond belief, whose hand shook on the long clay pipe that ceased burning only when he slept. “There’s a terrible moil and clatter, master,” he said, laughing vacantly. “There’ll be an odd few wanting to get indoors, I reckon.” “Yes, Nat, yes,” said the master impatiently. “Well, ye munnot let ’em. And there’ll be a fight like; but, bless ye, ’twill be naught to what we saw i’ the ’15 Rising. I was out i’ it wi’ your father, and men were men i’ those days. Eh, but there were bonnie doings!” Nat had forgotten that the ’15 had been more hapless and ill-conducted than this present Rising. He was back again with the young hope, the young ardour, that had taken him afield; and he was living in the dotard’s sanctuary, where all old deeds seem well done and only the present lacks true warmth and colour. “He tells his lie varry well, and sticks to it,” laughed Simon Foster. “I was out i’ that Rising myself, master, as you know, and if there were any bonnie doings, I never chanced on them.” “Nat is not wise. Let him be,” said the master, with a chivalrous regard that was cradled deep in the superstitions of the moor. The men without were battering uselessly at the great, nail-studded door. It had been built in times when callers were apt to come knocking on no peaceful errand; and it was secure against the battering-ram that had splintered the weaker courtyard gate. For all that, Rupert bade Simon and Ben Shackleton help him to up-end the heavy settle that stood along the wall. They buttressed the door with it, and were safe on this side of the house from any rough-and-ready method of attack. Then Rupert, precise in his regard for detail, led them to the kitchens. The women were huddled over a roaring fire of logs--the fruits of Simon’s industry not long ago--but Rupert did not heed them. The mullioned windows of the house were stout and narrow, and the only inlet, now the main door was safe, was by this kitchen entrance. The door was not wide enough to admit more than one man at a time, and its timbers could be trusted to resist attack until warning had been given to the garrison. “Martha,” said the master, choosing by instinct the one reliable wench among these chatterboxes, “your post is at the door here. You will warn us if there is trouble on this side.”