The company were not burdened by the awe and stillness of the night. They had dined well; there was prospect of good sport; the going underfoot was crisp and pleasant. It was only when they reached the Tarn, and Will Underwood looked down at the gables of Windyhough, snowy in the moonlight a quarter of a mile below, that some keenness of regret took hold of him. Nance was under the roof yonder; and he loved her with a passion that had been strengthened, cleansed of much dross, since she put shame on him; and yet he was forbidden to go down and ask how she was faring. Even his hardihood could not face a second time the contempt that had given him a kerchief, because he might need a flag of truce. “Here’s Will all in a dream, with his eyes on Windyhough,” laughed the jolly, red-faced squire. “Well, well! We all know Nance Demaine is a bonnie lass.” Underwood turned sharply, too sick at heart to care how openly he showed his feelings. “We’ll not discuss Miss Demaine, sir; our record is not clean enough.” The squire was ruffled by the taunt, because he, too, was uneasy touching this stay-at-home policy that once had seemed so prudent. “The man’s in love,” he said, with boisterous raillery. “Here’s Lancashire packed thick with pretty women, and he thinks there’s only one swan in the county. Will, you must let me laugh. To be young--and sick with love--it’s a fine, silly business. And little Nance has frowned, has she, when we thought you the prime favourite?” “If you want a duel,” said Underwood suddenly, “you can have it. The moon’s light is good enough.” “We have no swords.” “No, but we have our fowling-pieces--say, at twenty paces. The light is good enough, I tell you.” There were seven in the party, and five of them at least were not disposed to miss their duck-shooting because two of their number chose to pick a quarrel. And, somehow, by ridicule, persuasion, threats of interference, they staved off the duel. And Will Underwood turned his back on Windyhough, regained a little of his old, easy self, and settled to the night’s business. They put on the linen coats they had brought with them, each laughing as he watched his neighbour struggle with sleeves too narrow to go easily over their thick wearing-gear, and took their stations round the Tarn. They stood there silently, and waited; and they were white against white snow, so that even the keen-eyed duck could see nothing in this waste of silence except the glinting gun-barrels. They waited for it might be half an hour, till the cold began to nip them. The black waters of the Tarn showed in eerie contrast to the never-ending white that hemmed its borders. And then the wild-duck began to come, some flying low, some swinging high against the moon and starry sky. And one and all of the seven ghostly sportsmen forgot they were due with Prince Charles Edward on the road of honour; for there is a wild, absorbing glee about this moortop sport that cancels men’s regrets and shame.