Causleen seemed ever to be finding some unexpected waywardness in Hardcastle. He waged the feud so quietly, with such contempt for his own safety, that she had thought him deaf to what was no news on Logie-side. He, too, was aware that his house was doomed, it seemed; yet he found time to think of Donald.
“What happened to-night?” she asked again. “I’d rather have the tale from you than wait for gossip.”
So then he told her of his ride up-fell from Norbrigg, and how he found a post-boy holding his own with hardship against a footpad.
“I sent a bullet after him—and, the last I saw of the rogue, he was limping hard for Garsykes. It’s only one more count in their tally against me.”
“You could buy your house—at a price,” she said.
“What price?” He was rough and hard on the instant—rough as Storm, sleeping his sickness off in the cupboard near at hand.
“You could give them tribute.”
“And sell Logie’s honour? I couldn’t. Seven hundred years would rive open the graves down yonder, where dead Hardcastles lie. They’d rise and flout me.”
Causleen’s eyes glowed bright and clear. “It would be so easy,” she said, tempting him, “to pay a little to them every now and then—and your house safe—and no ropes stretched across night-roads.”
Hardcastle glowered down at her. “And no peace by day or night. Logie would know. Her timbers would creak and groan. She’d loose her ancient ghosts on me—and God knows every house has ghosts enough of that sort. You’re mad to talk of giving tribute.”