It was so he went quietly out into the sunlight that had struggled free awhile of the grey, wintry clouds. And again Nance was chilled, as she had been when the Loyal Meet rode out--years ago, it seemed--without sound of drum or any show of pageantry. She had not learned even yet that men with a single purpose go about their business quietly, not heeding bugle-calls of this world’s sounding. She watched him go, old pity and old liking stirred. And she longed to call him back, but pride forbade her. Simon Foster came grumbling through the charred courtyard gate. He had stood at the hilltop, watching the old master and the young go out along the track he was too infirm to follow; and there was a deep, abiding bitterness in his heart. “They shouldn’t have gi’en me a taste o’ fight, Miss Nance,” he said. “I call it fair shameful just to whet a body’s appetite, and then give him naught solid to follow. Oh, I tell ye, it’s ill work staying at home, tied up wi’ rheumatiz.” Nance was glad of the respite from her own muddled thoughts, from the sense of loss that Rupert had left her as a parting gift. “It is time you settled down,” she said, with a touch of the humour that was never far from her. “And you have Martha to make up for all you’re losing.” “Ay, true,” grumbled Simon, his eyes far away; “but Martha could have bided till I’d had my fill, like. She’s patient--it’s in the build of her--but, I never was.” “Patience?” said Nance. “It is in no woman’s build, Simon. We have to learn it, while our men are enjoying the free weather.” Rupert had overtaken his father on the winding, downhill track, and they rode in silence together for a mile or so, each thinking of the other and of the work ahead. It was a pleasant, deep communion for them both; and the son remembered, for the last time, how Sir Jasper had lied to him in giving him the house of Windyhough to keep. From the soldiery learnt there, from the peril waiting for them ahead, Rupert had won the priceless gift, forgiveness--a herb troublesome and hard to find. “You’re silent, lad,” said Sir Jasper, as they came to the stretch of level track that took them right-handed into the Langton road. “I was thinking--that dreams come true, sir, as I said to Nance just now.” Clouds were hurrying up against the sun--yellow, evil clouds, packed thick with snow--and a bitter wind was rising. The going underfoot was vile. Their errand was to join an army in retreat, with likelihood that they would dine and breakfast on disaster. And yet--because God made them so--they found tranquillity. Sir Jasper had dreamed of this, since his first gladness that he had an heir, his first sorrow when he admitted to himself, grudgingly, that the boy was not as strong as he had wished. And Rupert, while his shoulders found their scholarly droop in reading old books at Windyhough, had shared the same dream--that one day, by a miracle, he might ride out with his father on the Stuart’s business.