“They’ve lit a fire on the west side o’ the house, master,” came Shackleton’s big voice. “What it means I couldn’t tell ye, but I saw the red of it go kitty-kelpy fair across the snow.” Rupert followed him, glad already of the relief from sentry-work. Across the west window--emptied of its glass, like all the others, in readiness for action--little, pulsing shafts of crimson were playing through the snow-flakes. They heard men’s voices, confused and jarring; and the red glow deepened, though they could see nothing of what was in the doing. “We couldn’t expect ’em, like, to light their fire within eye-shot,” said Shackleton, with his unalterable quiet; “it would mean within gunshot, as we’ve taught ’em. But I own I’d like to know just what sort o’ devilry they’re planning. They might varry weel be firing the house over our heads.” “No,” said the master. “There are only stone walls on this side, Ben--five foot thick----” “Ay, true. But they’re not lads, to light a fire just for the sake o’ seeing it blaze.” Outside, close under shelter of the house-wall, Goldstein’s men had carried straw from the laithe where it was stored, had borrowed wood from the pile of timber left by Simon Foster at the courtyard gate, and were roasting their sheep as speedily as might be. And one adventurous spirit, searching the outhouses with a patience born of thirst, had found an unbroached ale-barrel. The return to good cheer loosened the men’s tongues; and Goldstein was content to let them have their way until this better mood of theirs had ripened. Within doors, Simon Foster had heard the master and Shackleton talking at the west window, had joined them, had listened till, from the babel of many voices, he heard what was in the doing. “They’re cooking their supper,” he said. “I should know the way of it; for we went stark and wet through the ’15, and cooked many a fat sheep, we did, just like these unchancy wastrels.” Into their midst, none knowing how he had drifted there, came Nat the shepherd, pipe in hand--a figure so old, so palsied, that stronger men were moved by a pity deep as human courage and human suffering. “Eh, now, I mind th’ ’15!” he cackled. “I rode out wi’ Sir Jasper--he was a lad i’ those days, and me a mettlesome man of fifty--and there were bonnie doings. It was all about some business o’ setting King Jamie on his throne--and there were bonnie doings. The gentry riding in, and the gentry riding out--and the bonnie ladies’ een bo-peeping at them as they went; and all the brave, open road ahead of us. We shall see no such times again, I warrant.” His head drooped suddenly. He fumbled for his tinder-box, because in his enthusiasm for days gone by he had let his pipe go out. He was a figure pitiful beyond belief--the last, blown autumn leaf, it seemed, clinging to the wind-blown tree of Stuart loyalty. And the master, in spite of the hazard out of doors, halted for a word of compassion.