Nance stood at bay, her head up. She did not know her heart, or the reason of this quiet, courageous fury that had settled on her. “Rupert fought on the moor--for my sake; you saw the plight Maurice came home in. I tell you, Rupert can fight like other men.” “Oh, yes--for books, and causes dead before our time.” “The Cause lives, Lady Royd--to Rupert and myself,” broke in Nance impulsively. So then the elder woman glanced at her with a new, mocking interest. “So the wind sits there, child, does it? It is ‘Rupert and I’ to-day--and to-morrow it will be ‘we’--and what will Mr. Underwood think of the pretty foolery, I wonder?” The girl flushed. This tongue of Lady Royd’s--it was so silken, and yet it bit like an unfriendly wind. “Mr. Underwood’s opinion carries little weight these days,” she said, gathering her pride together. “He is known already as the man who shirked his first big fence and ran away.” “Oh, then, you’re like the rest of them! All’s hunting here, it seems--you cannot speak without some stupid talk of fox, or hounds, or fences. For my part, I like Will Underwood. He’s smooth and easy, and a respite from the weather.” “Yes. He is that,” assented Nance, with something of the other’s irony. “He’s a rest, somehow, from all the wind and rain and downrightness of Lancashire. But, there! We shall not agree, Nance. You’re too like your father and Sir Jasper. Come indoors, and get those wet clothes off. We shall take a chill, the two of us, if we stand here.” Nance shivered, more from heart-chill than from cold of body. “Yes,” she said--“if only some one will take this mare of mine to stable. She’s wet and lonely. All her friends have left her--to seek the Langton Road.” Again the older woman was aware of a breadth of sympathy, an instinctive care for their dumb fellows, that marked so many of these hill-folk. It seemed barbarous to her that at a time like this, when women’s hearts were breaking for their men, Nance should be thinking of her mare’s comfort and peace of mind. A step sounded across the courtyard. Both women glanced up sharply, and saw Giles, the bailiff, a ludicrous anger and worry in his face. “Well, Giles?” asked his mistress, with soft impatience. “Are you a shirker, too?” “No, my lady. I was not reared that way. Some cursed fool--asking pardon for my plain speech--has stolen my horse. I’ll just have to o’ertake them on foot, I reckon--unless----” His glance rested on Nance’s mare, big and strong enough to carry him. “But, Giles, we keep no horse-thieves at Windyhough,” said Lady Royd, in her gentle, purring voice. “Where did you leave him?”