“Ay, maister--as mich as I shall ever get, as the short-winded horse said when they asked him why he roared like a smithy-bellows.” “Then I’ll go forward”--again the keen, bitter smile--“to the lumber-room, Simon, among the broken odds and ends.” Nance stood aside, finding no words to help herself or him, and watched them go along the corridor, and in at the door of Rupert’s bedchamber. And she knew, beyond doubt or surmise, that the Loyal Meet had left one useful volunteer at home to-day. She found Lady Royd in the low-raftered parlour that always carried an air of luxury and ease. In summer it was heavy with the scent of garden flowers; and now there was a tired, luxurious appeal from bowls of faded rose-leaves set everywhere about the room. A fire, too big for the comfort of open-air folk, was crackling on the hearth. In all things this parlour was a dainty frame enough for the mistress whose beauty had been nipped, not strengthened, by the keen winds of Lancashire. “Nance, will he live?” asked Lady Royd, running forward with the outstretched hands, the very words, that she had looked for. But she spoke of Rupert, not of Sir Jasper. “He came home so wearied-out--so lame and grey of face----” “Oh, I met him on the stairhead just now,” broke in Nance, with sharp common sense. “He’s had a fall from his horse--and he made a jest of it--and that is all.” “Then he’ll not die, you think? Nance, tell me, he’ll not die. I’ve been unkind to him in days past, and I--I am sorry.” It seemed to Nance that in this house of Windyhough she was never to escape from pity, from the sharper, clearer insight into life that these hopeless days were teaching her. This pretty matron, whom her husband had spoiled, sheltering her from draughts as if she were a hothouse flower too rare to take her chance in the open border--she was foolish as of old, so far as speech and manner went. But in her face, in her lisping, childish voice, there was a new, strong appeal that touched the younger woman. “I think that he--will _live_,” said the girl, with sudden passion. “He’s here among the women now--but to-morrow--or the next day, or the next--he’ll prove himself.” Lady Royd moved aimlessly about the room, warmed her hands at the fire, shivered as she glanced at the wintry sunlight out of doors. Then she came close to Nance, as if asking protection of some kind. “You hold the Faith, child. I do not,” she said, with bewildering candour. “But, Lady Royd--indeed, we’re of the same Faith----” “Yes, in the open shows, when folk are looking on. I’d as lief go abroad without my gown as not be seen at Mass. It is asked of Sir Jasper’s wife; so is constancy to the yellow-haired laddie who has sent sober men astray. Veiled lids are asked for when Will Underwood makes pretty speeches, with his eyes on fire; but at my heart, child--at my heart I’ve faith only in each day’s ease as it comes.”