“She forgot the way of it long since. Life’s salt enough for most of us as it is.”
“Let’s leave him with this wonder-woman, who never cries,” said the girl, with the same quiet mockery. “She wants nothing from us and the Master of Logie will not buy.”
Hardcastle stood watching them with grim humour. “He would, if you’d anything to sell he needed. Pedlars have to carry all things in their packs for the women. They seldom have the man of the house to reckon with.”
“Seldom,” Donald agreed; “but I’ve something to barter for a night’s lodging.”
“A wheedling tongue? That never carried far with me.”
“Something I found on your gate. Gossip blows down all winds to us tramping folk, and they say the Wilderness People grow busy.”
The Master was silent. For a moment Causleen, as she watched him, saw beyond the mask of his hard, impassive face—saw down into his heart, where fear was dwelling—grey, chilly fear, at war with his manhood and his lusty strength.
“They’ve left their token on me? Show it,” he said, with rough command.
“For the price of a night’s lodging.”
“Oh, you can have it, man.”