Sir Jasper was aware of an unreasoning happiness, a sense that, in the thick of coming dangers, he had found something for which he had been searching many years. If he had been Squire Demaine, his intimate friend and neighbour, he would have clapped Rupert on the back, would have bidden his sons drown their quarrel in a bumper. But he was more scholarly, less hale of body than Roger Demaine, and he tasted this new joy as if he feared to lose its flavour. He had fought Rupert’s cause so long, had defended him against the mother who despised and flouted him. Under all disappointment had been the abiding faith that his heir would one day prove himself. And now--here was Rupert, bruised and abashed, and Maurice, proud of this troublesome brother who had fought and would not yield. It was all so workaday, so slight a matter; but Sir Jasper warmed to these two lads as if they had returned from capturing a city for the rightful King. They were bone of his bone, and they had fought together, and Rupert had forgotten that he was born a weakling. Oliphant of Muirhouse looked on. He remembered both lads well, for he had halted often at Windyhough during these last troubled years, had seen the heir grow into reedy and neglected manhood, the younger brother claiming notice and regard from every one, by reason of his ready wit, his cheeriness, his skill at sports of all kinds. From the first Oliphant’s sympathy had been with the elder-born, with the scholar at whom men laughed; for he could never quite forget his own past days. He looked on to-night, glad of this touch of human comedy that came to lighten his desolate rides between one post of danger and the next. “Come, lads,” said Sir Jasper, with gruff kindliness, “you were fools to seek a quarrel. Brother should love brother”--he laughed suddenly, a boy’s laugh that disdains maxims--“but there’s no harm in a fight, just now and then. What was your quarrel, eh?” They glanced at each other; but it was Rupert who first broke the silence, not Maurice as in bygone days. “We cannot tell you, sir,” he said, with a dignity in odd contrast with his swollen, red-raw face. “Indeed, we cannot.” Sir Jasper, out here in the sleety wind, was not aware of cold or the coming hardships. His heir was showing firmness, and he tempted him into some further show of courage. “Nonsense, boy! You tell me all your secrets.” Rupert lifted his battered face. “Not this one, sir--and if Maurice tells it----” “There, there! Get indoors, lads, and ask the housekeeper for a raw beefsteak.” Maurice went obediently enough, knowing this tone of his father’s. But Rupert halted on the moonlit threshold, turned in his odd, determined way, and came to Oliphant’s side. The messenger, standing with an arm through the bridle of his restive horse, was embarrassed by the look in the boy’s eyes--the eager glance of youth when it meets its hero face to face.