“Oh, the good brute,” said Hardcastle, with a grim, sudden oath. “His hunting days are over.”
“He’s not dead?” Causleen pleaded, knowing the futility of what she asked.
He did not hear, and her own sorrow was checked for a moment at sight of his. In silence and in grief he stood looking down at this lost comrade who had been with him through the long, unequal fight of Logie against the Wilderness.
“We can’t leave him here to the corbie-crows,” he growled at last—“or for the Garsykes sort to mock at.”
Causleen’s tears were running fast as she knelt beside the gaunt, still body. “Storm, come back,” she whispered. “You’re too brave and dear to die like this. We need you, Storm.”
Hardcastle watched her in gloomy silence, till thought of all she had gone through overmastered him with a sharp rush of pity. He lifted her with a strength that was persuasion, too, and held her close.
“I’d rather have it this way, child. He died for Logie—not at Brant’s hands.”
She smiled wanly through her tears. “He had his faults—but I—I shall miss him. He used to come to the cupboard under the stair—so wise and penitent, Dick, so loyal—and now he’ll never come again.”
He put her from him, with the same gentle strength, and shouldered what was left of Storm. Then he went down into Drumly Ghyll, and presently returned.
“What have you done with him?” she asked piteously.