The lad winced, and turned to seek the shadows again, after one long, searching glance at the other’s unrelenting face. And Lady Royd forgot the past. She followed him, brought him back again into the candlelight. One sharp word from the father had bidden her protect this son who was bone of her bone. Rupert looked at her in wonder. She had been his enemy till now; yet suddenly she was his friend. He looked gravely at her--a man of five-and-twenty, who should have known better than to blurt out the deeper thoughts that in prudent folk lie hidden. “Mother,” he said, striving to keep the listless, care-naught air that was his refuge against the day’s intrusions--“mother----” She had not heard the word before--not as it reached her now--because she had not asked for it. It was as if she had lived between four stuffy walls, fearing to go out into the gladness and the pain of motherhood. “Yes, boy?” she asked, with lover-like impatience for the answer. “You are kind to--to pity me. But it seems to make it harder,” he said with extreme simpleness. “I’m no son to be proud of, mother.” His voice was low, uncertain, as he looked from one to the other of these two who had brought him into a troubled world. Then he glanced shyly at his father. “I could die, sir, for the Prince,” he added, with a touch of humour. “But they say I cannot live for him.” The wife looked at the husband. And pain crossed between them like a fire. He was so big of heart, this lad, and yet he was left stranded here in the backwater of life. Sir Jasper laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re no fool, Rupert,” he said, fierce in his desire to protect the lad from his own shame. “I give you the post of honour, after all--to guard your mother. We cannot all ride afield, and I’m leaving some of our men with you.” “Yes,” said Rupert; “you leave the lamesters, father--the men who are past service, whose joints are crazy.” He was bitter. This Rising had fired his chivalry, his dreams of high adventure, his race-instinct for a Stuart and the Cause. He had dreamed of it during these last, eager nights, had freed himself from day-time weakness, and had ridden out, a leader, along the road that led through Lancashire to London. And the end of it was this--he was to be left at home, because straight-riding men were hindered by the company of an untrained comrade. The father saw it all. He had not watched this son of his for naught through five-and-twenty years of hope that he would yet grow strong enough to prove himself the fitting heir. It was late, and Sir Jasper had to make preparation for a ride to market at dawn; but he found time to spare for Rupert’s needs. “Come with me, Rupert,” he said, putting an arm through his son’s. “It was always in my mind that Windyhough might be besieged, and I leave you here--in command, you understand.” “In command?” Rupert was alert, incredulous. “That was the way my dreams went, father.”