She let herself shelter awhile in the roomy haven of his arms, then withdrew restlessly.
“There’s so little time if we’re to get away. Nita went to rouse the village, and they may be coming up already.”
Hardcastle brushed past her in the narrow track, bidding her follow slowly with Storm as he hurried to the cavern-mouth. He halted on the threshold. The steep, empty brink-field stretched in front. No sound came, except the hoarse cry of a hoodie crow wheeling overhead. So then he stepped into the open. Ten of the Wilderness People, lurking out of sight, sprang at him in a body, and only his preparedness for some such ambush saved him. With the alertness of one lighter and more supple in the build, he leaped back into the cave’s friendly dark.
One from Garsykes could not check his own forward rush, and followed willy-nilly. Hardcastle closed with him—the roof was high enough for a tall man to stand upright—and his grip was so prolonged and terrible that Causleen could hear the rogue’s bones crack one by one.
Then Hardcastle took the broken body, using it for shield, and went out a step or two and threw his burden among the nine who still remained.
“Firstfruits,” he said, and turned as a wild uproar rang across the slope.
The barren pasture was swarming now with men. There was no chance of escape in front, and again Hardcastle leaped back across the threshold. A soft hand found his, and a brave voice whispered in his ear.
“Hurt, Dick? Are you hurt at all?”
“No; but one of Garsykes is.”
Her hand withdrew. She feared Hardcastle of Logie—feared his exultation, the hard breathing, as of a wild-beast that fought for love of it.