An hour later Simon Foster, stiff already from standing at the south window, made pretence that he must go the round of the house, lest younger men were not steady at their posts. As he hobbled down the corridor that led to the north side, he saw Nance Demaine, sitting ghostlike at the window. And he crossed himself, because the habits of fore-elders are apt to cling to a man, however dim may be the faith of his later years. Nance turned. “Ah! you, Simon?” “Why, it’s ye, Miss Nance? God forgive me, I thought you a boggart, come to warn us the old house was tumbling round our ears.” “Not yet, Simon,” she said quietly. “I heard the master say one side was unguarded--and I knew where the muskets were stored----” “But, Miss Nance, it’s no playing at shooting, this. It may varry weel be a longer siege than you reckon for, and we’re few; and it means sitting and waiting--waiting and sitting--till ye’re sick for a wink o’ sleep. Nay, nay! You dunnot know what strength it needs.” “I nursed a sick child once--not long ago. For three days and nights, Simon, I had no sleep.” The other was silent. All the countryside knew that story now--knew how Squire Roger’s daughter had gone on some casual errand of mercy to a cottage on the Demaine lands, had found a feckless mother nursing a child far gone in fever, had stayed on and fought for its life with skill and hard determination. Yet Nance spoke of it now without thought of any courage she had shown; she was eager only to prove that she had a right to take her place among the men in guarding Windyhough. Simon Foster looked at the girl’s figure, the orderly line of muskets. She seemed workmanlike; and he approved her with a sudden, vigorous nod. “The light’s dim, Miss Nance,” he growled, turning to hobble down the corridor, “but I reckon ye can aim.” It was so the long night began. The wind had ceased altogether. From out of doors there was no sound, of man or beast. The snow fell in thicker flakes, and, working silently as those concerned with burials do, it laid a shroud about the courtyard, about the many gables of the house, about the firs and leafless sycamores that guarded Windyhough from the high moors. On the north side of the house, where the stables and the huddled mass of farm-buildings stood, Goldstein’s men were preparing to find comfort for the night as best they could. From time to time there was a sound of voices or of shuffling footsteps, deadened by the snow; for the rest, a dismaying stillness lay about the house. * * * * * To Rupert, to Nance, guarding the north window, to Simon Foster, this silence of attack seemed heavier, more unbearable, than the do-nothing time that had preceded it. There had been the brief battle-fury in the courtyard, the zest of getting ready for the siege; and now there was only silence and the falling snow.