Then, as they rounded the bend, he pulled up sharply. Nita Langrish, a bundle of withies over her shoulder, was standing in the roadway, her glance fixed on Logie. So intent she was on thoughts of the dead Master who had flouted her—hidden deep with the pedlar’s brat under the rocks in Garsykes cave—that she heard no sound of hoofs behind.
Nita had had her will of them both, and stood there as in a trance. Vengeance was sweet. She was minded to taste it to the full, looking down at masterless Logie. Every curling wisp of smoke rose from a hearth Hardcastle would never know again. No son of his would grow to claim the heritage. Logie and its seven hundred years ended with old Rebecca and a brindled cat; and so much for pride.
A man’s cry of warning roused her, and she turned to see Hardcastle’s cob rearing scarcely a yard away, his fore-feet perilously close.
Nita leaped aside, then stood gazing at these two who were buried in the cave out yonder—these two, who seemed to ride on horseback through the sunlight and the free moorland wind.
Hardcastle glanced once at her. It was not his way to fight with women; but a sullen loathing came.
“We’re dead in Garsykes cavern,” he said. “It’s only our ghosts that ride.”
“Only your ghosts?” asked Nita eagerly, snatching at a straw in this torrent of dread that raced over her.
“And Storm’s,” said Hardcastle. “He died with us, and runs close behind, I fancy.”
With that they rode on, and Hardcastle’s grim smile died out as he glanced at Causleen’s face.
“You’re tired, wife,” he said gently.