“Oh, aye,” she answered cheerfully. “I’ve clouted a man’s lugs before to-day, and can do it again, I reckon.” And she picked up her milking-stool, which was lying under the sink in readiness for the morrow’s milking, set it down by the door, and seated herself with a deliberation that in itself suggested confidence. Then the master went upstairs, with a light step, and stationed himself at the window, wider and more perilous than any loophole, which overlooked the main door. It was the post of greatest hazard, given him by his father in that make-believe of defence which had preceded Sir Jasper’s riding-out. Rupert glanced down at the six muskets, the powder flask, the little heap of bullets that lay along the window-sill. “We thought them nursery-toys, Simon?” he said, with his whimsical, quick smile. “We even took the glass out from the window, pretending that we must be ready for the sharp attack.” “Drill pays,” growled Simon. “Aye, keep hard at it enough, and drill pays.” “Yes, faith pays--it is drill, as I told you.” “Faith can bide. We’re here i’ the stark murk of it, master, and we’ll say our prayers to-morrow--if it happens we’re alive.” Rupert took up the muskets, one by one, saw to the priming of them. “You’ll say your prayers to-night, Simon, by getting to your post,” he said dryly. “Give Ben Shackleton the loophole on the west side. That gives us three sides guarded.” The two men went heavy-footed to their posts; and Shackleton turned to Simon Foster when they were out of earshot. “Young master’s fair uplifted,” he said. “He’s not fey--that’s all I hope.” “He’s not fey,” said Foster, blunt and full of common sense. “He’s been a dreamer, and he’s wakened; and we might do worse, Ben, than waken just as bright as he’s done.” The master stood at his post, and felt the rebound from his own high spirits. He looked out at the blurred moonlight, the scattered flakes of snow, that hid the over-watching hills from him. The old self-doubt returned. He was pledged to keep the house secure--he who had been left behind because he was not trained to join the Rising. And he had little skill, except for dreams of high endeavour. He lifted his head suddenly. From the courtyard below he heard the hum of guttural voices. Goldstein and his men were still gathered about the main doorway, hungry, wet to the skin, irresolute as to the best plan of action. Rupert was no dreamer now. He could see nothing in the yard, through the thick snow and the moon-haze; but he took up a musket and fired at random, and picked up a second gun, and a third, and snapped the trigger; and from below there came a yelp of pain, a running of men’s feet. And Rupert was his own man again, forgetting dreams, remembering only that the siege was here in earnest. Through the smoke and the reek of gunpowder Nance Demaine came into the room. “Where is my post?” she asked, standing trim and soldierly at Rupert’s side.