“Well, they haven’t, to all appearance; but they come to my sheepfold as if there was no law in the land. I stepped down to talk about it with you, Master.”
“The ewes must take their chance, as we all do these days.”
“Aye, they mean little to you, and always did. Time was when you sheltered Storm, though he was a red-jawed outlaw dog. Well, I got Storm at last.”
Hardcastle found the grim humour that gave salt and savour to these harsh days. “You got Storm, poor beast,” he said, thinking of the cupboard under the stair at Logie—thinking, too, of Causleen and her way with the backslider.
“He’ll trouble me no more—but durned if these Garsykes Men aren’t worse than a kennel-full of such as Storm. They grow outrageous—fair outrageous.”
The Master was glad of the chance given him to speak his mind. “There are six of us leal to the old house, Stephen. The rest are paying tribute.”
“Damn ’em, yes.”
“Get away before Logie goes. I brought you into this, thinking we’d win through. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“No,” said Brant—“except that we’re twin and marrow in our love o’ Logie. Where you bide, I bide.”
Hardcastle glanced over to the light that shone from Causleen’s window. All was in the losing, and his wits were keen to save her from the last, foul uproar.