The rough sympathy was too much for him. He had gone through evil days—through beguilement that promised all, and gave nothing but the slant flight of a snipe as it raced down-wind.
“The spell’s over me, fast and hard,” he said, and laughed—but not with the old relish.
II
The next day Nita came home by way of the Long Spinney that raked down from Logie to the grey hill-fastness where her village lurked. Her step was buoyant. She had sold her baskets, and had another man in thrall at Garsykes. All was well with her, till a gunshot cracked from the spinney, and Hardcastle came presently down the lane between the thick-set firs and sycamores, dangling a hare.
At sight of him—big and careless, as if the world were his—Nita lost all content. There was one who had escaped her snare, and she coveted him.
“The man they call Will o’ Wisp brought me just such a hare—and it was one of yours, I fancy.”
“Did he? I’m taking mine to Logie.”
“For the pedlar’s brat to share?”
Hardcastle, as yet, knew nothing of his heart; but Nita read it in his stubborn quietness.
“What did you say to her, that day you met her on the road?” he asked.