And then he told her--quickly, because this was time stolen from his work downstairs--that she must get Lady Royd into the kitchen, must wait there with the women-servants till they knew how the night’s battle went. If the house were taken, they were to escape by the kitchen door, find their way to the disused farmstead in the hollow, and hide there till Goldstein’s men had ridden off. “But there are only three of you,” said Nance, alert once more. “You let me keep a window for you, Rupert--are you afraid I shall go to sleep again if I join your company downstairs?” “I command here,” he said briefly, “and you obey.” In the thickest tumult women have odd methods of their own. “Obey? I never liked the word. I come with you--where the gunshots are.” “No,” said Rupert. And, “Yes,” she said, an open quarrel in her glance. So then the master, by sheer, blundering honesty, found the right way with her. “Nance, you’ll weaken me if you come down. Nothing that can happen to me--nothing--can hurt me as--as what would chance if Goldstein’s brutes got through us.” In the hurry and suspense, Nance found leisure--long almost as eternity--to see Rupert as he was. This was his courage, this was his love for her--a love asking nothing, except to stand between herself and danger. “My dear,” she said, “I think I shall obey.” And the master, greatly daring, lifted her hand, and touched it with his lips. “God bless you, Nance!” he said, as if he toasted royalty. He went down the stair, took his place at the wall, and stood nursing a musket in his hands. “They’re long in getting their durned fire alight,” said Ben Shackleton, with a nonchalance bred of great excitement. Simon Foster’s unrest took another form of outlet. He crossed to the master’s side of the hall, reached up and blew the candle out. “Best take no risks,” he grumbled. “You were always a bit unpractical, master, though I say it to your face.” Two hours or so before, Will Underwood had led his company of good livers and poor loyalists across the frozen snow to the roomy stretch of water that was known as Priest’s Tarn. It was a white and austere land they crossed--league after league of shrouded, rolling heath that stretched to the still, frozen skies. The moon, hard and clear-cut, seemed only to increase the savage desolation by interpreting its nakedness.