“Could we get the pedlar and his girl to your hut on the moor? It’s cold up yonder at this time o’ year, but there are worse things than cold.”
“We could. The bracken-sledge would bump old Donald a bit by the way, but we’d pad him well with hay-trusses.”
“I’ll have the sledge out to-morrow, with the old grey horse to draw it. He’s only eating his head off in the stable.”
“Not so fast, Master,” put in Brant dryly. “That hut o’ mine is well enough for a rough shepherd, but I’ll fettle it up before a maid can pretend to be suited with it.”
“It’s no time to ask whether the maid’s pleased or not,” snapped the other. “You know what may happen any moment if she stays.”
Brant was silent as they crossed the last pasture-field. He knew many things—not least of them the reason that made Hardcastle gloomy and prone to caution nowadays. It would be better for them all if Causleen were out of Garsykes’ reach, and the Master’s mind relieved of the sapping dread lest hurt should come to her.
“I’ll be ready,” he said, opening the back-gate of Logie for Hardcastle to pass through. “Then, after we’re free of what you might call encumbrances, we’ll set about putting the fear of hell into the Lost Folk.”
Hardcastle regained his old self at a bound, for no reason that he guessed. “What’s in that feud-sick mind of yours, Brant?”
“To gather my stolen ewes from Garsykes. Six of us are staunch, and six have dogs to round ’em up and back to Logie. We’ve fowling-pieces, too.”
“But cannot use them, Brant. You should know that I’m a magistrate.”