And sometimes, at unlikeliest moments, there came a brief, bewildering summer to his soul. He knew that Nance was thinking of him--was trusting him, as all these others did. He would see the moors and the denes that had bred him--would hear the pleasant folk-speech of Lancashire, as he passed greeting with farmers on the road--would remember the way of his heart, as it leaped out to Nance in the old, unproven days. These were his intervals of rest; for God lets no man’s zeal consume him altogether, until his time is ripe to go. And then he would put dreams from him, as if they were a crime, and would touch his pocket to learn if the dispatches were secure, and would ride forward, carrying his life through the winding passes, through the Scottish caution of lairds who were doubtful whether it were worth while to join a Prince in hot retreat. It was so he came to Culloden Moor--wet, rheumatic, and untiring--on the Fifteenth of April, and had audience of the Prince. He had come from the north side of the River Spey, and was ignorant that the enemy, under the Duke of Cumberland’s command, was encamped not far away, ready to give battle on the morrow. The Prince acknowledged Rupert’s coming with a quick, friendly smile. “Ah, you, sir! You’re the pick of my gentlemen since Oliphant of Muirhouse died.” And Rupert, forgetting that he had ridden far, carrying urgent news, was aghast that one who had fed his boyish dreams--one who had brightened the hard face of endeavour for him--should have gone out of reach of human touch and speech. “He’s dead, your Highness? I--I loved him,” he said brokenly. “Then be glad,” said the Prince, as if he talked gently to a younger brother. “He died in Carlisle Castle, after a cruel ride on my behalf. But he was not taken, sir, as all the others were. There was Colonel Towneley there--a comrade I had proved--and they tell me he’s on his way south to Tower Hill. I would rather die as Oliphant--God rest him!--died.” Rupert, blind and heart-sick, fumbled for his dispatches--dispatches that, twice to-day, had all but cost him his life--and handed them to the Prince, who turned them over carelessly and put them down. “By your leave,” said the Prince, with a quiet laugh, “these can wait a little. There’s battle on the moor to-morrow.” Then Rupert learned what was in the doing; and his first grief for Oliphant grew dulled, because the chance of open fight had come, after incessant riding through the nights that had brought him little company. “There, you’ll need rest!” said the Prince, with a kindly touch on his arm. And again Rupert smiled, with disarming frankness. “I’ve had five-and-twenty years of rest, your Highness. It is better to be up Culloden braes to-morrow.” “Gad, sir! you’re Oliphant--just Oliphant, come to life again, with all his obstinate, queer zeal. Make your peace, lad, and sleep a while--we come into our kingdom either way to-morrow.”