“Oh, damn you all ways, Murgatroyd,” he said, and went to where his horse stood trembling, and felt its knees.
Murgatroyd looked on, with dazed wonder. “Broken are they?”
“Sound as a bell,” growled Hardcastle, as he swung into the saddle.
Long Murgatroyd watched him out of sight. The Master of Logie was a fool, no doubt, to leave him ripe for further mischief; but in some queer way he found a liking for him. He dealt fair with all about the country-side; and fairness appealed to this chastened mood of his.
“If only Nita would let him alone, he’d rather see Hardcastle live than die. If only Nita would let him alone.”
The words got into his muddled wits as he looked from the forest to the misty fells where Garsykes slept in the flooding moonlight. Some uncouth purpose stirred him. He went and unfastened the rope he had tied from tree to tree across the road. The knots were tight and his fingers clumsy; but at last he coiled it into a neat bundle, climbed the wall on his right, and lopped like a hare down the grey-blue pastures.
When he neared the little brig that crossed Crooning Water, a clear, sweet voice drifted up the breeze, singing a song.
There came a man to my house,
Love me well, said he;
There came a man to my house,