The bailiff, glancing at his master’s face, knew that he had prevailed. “Ay, just thereby,” he said, his face inscrutable and hard. “But one way or another, I mean to keep free o’ brimstone i’ the next world. It’s all a matter o’ business, and I tell ye so.” Underwood went out into the frosty, moonlit night, and paced up and down the house-front. His forebears had given him one cleanly gift, at least--he needed always, when in the thick of trouble, to get away from house-walls, out into the open. The night was clear, between one storm and the next, and the seven lamps of Charlie’s Wain swung high above his head. He had to make his choice, once for all, and knew it--the choice between the gospel of self-help and the wider creed that sends men out to a simple, catholic sacrifice of houseroom and good living. He looked at the matter from every side, business-like as his father before him. There were many pledges he had given that he would join his intimates when the summons came. If they returned from setting a Stuart on the throne, the place he had won among them would be valueless. But, on the other hand, Eli’s news made it sure that they would not return, that, if they kept whole skins at all, they would be driven into exile overseas. He knew, too, that there were many lukewarm men, prudent doubters, even among the gentry here whose every instinct had been trained to the Stuart’s service. The few hot-headed folk--the dreamers--were riding out to disaster certain and foreknown--but there would be practical, cool men enough left here in Lancashire to keep him company. And there was Nance. He was on ground less sure now. It lay deeper than he guessed, deeper than his love of hunting and good-living, his passion for Nance Demaine. She was at once his good and evil angel, and to-night he had to choose his road. All that was best in his regard for her pointed to the strict, narrow road of honour. And she had promised him her kerchief when he returned from following that road. And yet--to lose life and lands, may be--at best, to be a fugitive in foreign countries--would that help him nearer to the wooing? If he stayed here, she would be derelict at Windyhough, would need his help. He could ride down to the house each day, be at hand to tempt her with the little flatteries that mean much when women are left in a house empty of all men-folk. And, if danger came up the moors after the Rising was crushed at birth by Marshal Wade, he would be at hand to protect her. _To protect her._ He knew, down under all subterfuge, that such as Nance find the surest protection when their men are riding straight, and he was not riding straight to-night; and finer impulses were stirring in him than he had felt through five-and-thirty years of self-indulgence.