He lived through that scene again in detail, heard Nance’s voice sweep all his prudent self-esteem aside. And her scorn bit deeper now, because he knew at last the strength of his fine regard for her. Passion was gone. Prudence was gone, because men near to death remember that they came naked into the world. He had lost the trickeries that had earned him the name of Wild Will, and was glad to let them go. He was aware only that he lay between here and hereafter, in pain of body and soul, and that he might take this last fence gladly, as on a hunting-morn, if he could wipe away the remembrance of one day gone by. Many things grew clear to him as he lay and watched the moon. The wrath and pitiless hell-fire of Rigstones Chapel yielded to a wider outlook on the forgiveness of a Being greater than himself in charity. He found it easy to forgive his enemies, to forget his jealousy of Rupert, whom he had saved just now. But, warring against the peace he sought, and keeping the life quick in his tortured body, was remembrance of that day on the high moors. His work, good or ill, was done, and he longed to die, and could not. Into the littered hall at Windyhough, while the squire paced up and down asking noisily for Will Underwood, old Nat the shepherd sauntered, pipe in hand. He was old, and a dreamer, and the gunshots and the fury had not disturbed him greatly. Nat glanced round at the fallen men and the standing, at the doorway through whose blackened lintels the keen moonlight stole to drown the candle-flames. And he laughed, a gentle, pitying laugh. “It’s naught so much to brag about,” he said. “There were bonnier doings i’ the ’15 Rising. Men were men i’ those days.” Nance wearied of it all as she stood by the master’s bed and listened to the talk downstairs. The house seemed full of men, and insolent coupling of her name with Will Underwood’s, and the sickly, pungent smell of blood and smoke. She was tired of gallantry and war, tired of her own weariness; and she went down the stair, stepping lightly over Rupert’s enemy, and came among them into hall. “Your servant, Miss Nance,” said the red-faced squire, not guessing what a figure of comedy he cut, bowing under the folds of a white linen coat. “I thank you, gentlemen,” said Nance unsteadily. “From my heart I thank you. You--you have done us service. And now, by your leave, I need to get out of doors. I--I have been in prison here.” They made a lane of honour for her. They had been laggards in the Prince’s service; they were recusants, come at the last hour to prove themselves; but they felt, seeing Nance step down between them, her face stained with weariness and long vigil, that a royal lady had come into their midst.