“He’ll find his way one day,” he said. “Be kind to him, wife--it’s ill work for a man, I tell you, to be sitting at home while other men are fighting. I’ll not answer for his temper.” Then suddenly he smiled. “He’s a game pup, after all. To see Maurice’s face when they came home together--and to know that it was Rupert who had knocked it so pleasantly out of shape----” “Is there nothing pleases men but war?” the wife broke in piteously. “Nothing but blows, and bruised faces----” “Nothing else in the world, dear heart--when war happens to be the day’s business. Peace is well enough, after a man has earned it honestly.” Lady Royd was tired, beaten about by this cold, northern winter that had never tamed her love of ease. “Then women have no place up here,” she said fretfully. “Bloodshed--how we loathe it and all your needless quarrels! And all the while we ask ourselves what does it matter which king is on the throne, so long as our husbands are content to stay at home? Women surely have no place up here.” Sir Jasper, too, was tired in his own way. “Yes, you’ve a place,” he answered sharply--“the place we fight to give you. There’s only one King, wife--I’m pledged to his service, by your leave.” “Oh, yes,” she said, with her pleasant drawl. “I know that by heart. Faith, and the high adventure, and the King. There’s only one matter you forget--the wife who sits at home, and plies her needle, and fancies each stitch is a wound her husband takes. You never saw that dark side of your Rising?” “Wounds?” said the other gruffly. “We hide them, wife--that is men’s business. The fruits of them we bring home--for our wives to spend.” “Ah, you’re bitter,” she pleaded. “Not bitter,” he said. “I’m a man who knows his world--or thinks he does. The men earn--and the women spend; and you never guess how hard come by is that delicate gift, honour, we bring you.” “Honour?” She was peevish now. “I know that word, too, by heart. It brings grief to women. It takes their men afield when they have all they need at home. It brings swords from the scabbard----” “It brings peace of soul, after the wounds are healed,” Sir Jasper interrupted gravely. Will Underwood about this time had reached his own house, and had found his bailiff waiting for him. He had added another wing to the house in the summer, and workmen had been busy ever since in getting things to rights indoors in readiness for the ball which Underwood had planned for Christmas Eve--a ball that should outmatch in lavishness and pomp all previous revels of the kind. “Well, Eli?” growled the master, who was in no good mood to-night. “Your face is sour enough. Have you waited up to tell me that the men are discontented again with their wages?”