He sprang from bed and dressed himself, halted to be sure that Maurice was still sound asleep, felt his way through the pitch-dark of the room until he reached the door. Then he went down, unbarred the main door with gentle haste, and stood in the windy courtyard. It was a wet night and a stormy one on Windyhough Heights. Now and then the moon ran out between the grey-black, scudding clouds and lit a world made up of rain and emptiness. And Rupert again heard the clear, urgent call. Slight of body, a thing of small account set in the middle of this majestic uproar of the heath, he squared his shoulders, looked at the house-front, the fields, the naked, wind-swept coppices, to which he was the heir. Old tradition, some instinct fathered by many generations, rendered him greater than himself. “Get to saddle,” said the voice at his ear; and he forgot that the ways of a horse were foreign to him. He glanced once again at the heath, as if asking borrowed strength, then crept like a thief toward the stables. It was near dawn now. The wind, tired out, had sunk to a low, piping breeze. The moon shone high and white from a sky cleared of all but the filmiest clouds; and over the eastern hummocks of the moor lithe, palpitating streaks of rose, and grey, and amber were ushering up the sun. All was uproar in the stable-yard, and the future master of these grooms and farm-lads waited in the shadows--a looker-on, as always. He saw a lanthorn swinging up and down the yard, confusing still more the muddled light of moon and dawn; and then he heard Giles, his father’s bailiff, laugh as he led out Sir Jasper’s horse, and listened while the man swore, with many a rich Lancashire oath, that Rising work was better than keeping books and harrying farmers when they would not pay their rents. And still Rupert waited, watching sturdy yeomen ride in from Pendle Forest, on nags as well built as themselves, to answer Sir Jasper’s rally-call. “’Tis only decent-like, Giles,” he heard one ruddy yeoman say, “to ride in a little before our betters need us. I was never one to be late at a hunt, for my part.” “It all gangs gradely,” Giles answered cheerily. “By dangment, though, the dawn’s nearer than I thought; and I’ve my own horse to saddle yet.” Rupert waited with great patience for his chance--waited until Giles came out again, leading a thick-set chestnut that had carried him on many a bailiff’s errand. And in the waiting his glow of courage and high purpose grew chilled. He watched the lanthorns bobbing up and down the yard, watched the dawn sweep bold and crimson over this crowd of busy folk. He was useless, impotent; he had no part in action, no place among these men, strong of their hands, who were getting ready for the battle. Yet, under all the cold and shame, he knew that, if he were asked to die for the Cause--asked simply, and without need to show himself a fool at horsemanship--it would be an easy matter.