He knew that death was in the room, and cringed his way to Donald’s side. He crouched for a while, his head on the still body, and whimpered like a child; for the pedlar and he had shared many an hour of friendship when life was wrong with both.
Then the sheep-slayer rose and shook himself. There was no cringeing now, no sorrow. Self-reliant, strong of body and of courage, he came to Hardcastle, who knew less than he what was soon to happen on Logie-side. He looked at the Master with brown, candid eyes—a lingering glance of sheer affection—and put two hairy paws on his shoulders while he licked his face. And afterwards he said good-bye to Causleen, and turned once at the broken casement before passing out into the night.
“Poor devil,” muttered Hardcastle. “I’d whistle him back, if Brant was not about the house.”
“Brant would not shoot him, after all we’ve shared with Storm?”
“In cold blood. Logie might go, and all of us, if Stephen’s ewes were safe.”
“It is a hard country,” said Causleen, clinging to his sleeve with sharpening dread.
And now Rebecca came running to the door, and stood like one turned to stone when she saw these two together. The kingdom of her days at Logie was ended. That was plain.
“What is it?” asked the Master.
“Naught that matters now; but, for my part, I’d have chosen a likelier time for sweethearting. My kitchen asking a week o’ days to redd it up again—fire and brimstone on this side o’ the house—and you two fancying you’re cushat-doves high up in a mating tree. I’ve no patience.”
“What is it?” asked Hardcastle again.