When Hardcastle had fastened him in, with a biscuit or two for company, he went with Rebecca to the kitchen. They found Brant sitting by the hearth, a stoup of ale beside him.
“Getting mellow, Stephen?”
“Mellowish, as you might say.”
“There’s naught else to do these days, while the waiting-time is on.”
“He talks of sleeping here to-night,” said Rebecca, harking back to her grievance, “says he wants to be ready for the sledge-journey you’ve planned. If you want to kill poor Donald outright—well, bump him to his death on the bracken-track.”
Hardcastle, a little afraid of his henchwoman in times of ease, was the master now. “War has come. Will you put that into your mind once for all?”
“I’m not likely to forget it.”
“They’re coming one day to fire Logie. D’ye think we want to be crippled by thought of Donald, lying helpless? If he had his choice, would he be burned in his bed—or risk death on the bracken road, with God’s winds about him?”
“God’s winds blow snell and cruel these days Indoors or out, there’s little to choose, and men like Brant come trapesing in to beg a night’s lodging. He’s killed Storm, he tells us, and should be content with that, without adding murder of poor Donald to his Judgment tally.”
“Killing of Storm won’t worrit me, when my time comes,” chuckled Brant. “There’ll be a few score ewes to back me up—ewes that might have gone into his jaws if it hadn’t been for a lucky shot o’ mine. As for Donald, I’m with the Master. He’s a better chance on the uplands than tied to his bed at Logie.”