“You and your ghosts, woman. I’ve no patience. Dead men can walk—I’ve seen a few in my time—but it’s a heathen fancy that the four-footed sort have spirits.”
“Some o’ the four-footed have a bigger spirit than some o’ the two-legged, and have a properer right to walk. But, then, you were always against Storm, poor martyr,” she added, re-opening their ancient feud. “It wasn’t enough that he died for the Master.”
“For a sheep-killer he died fairish well. I’ll own to as much as that,” broke in the other, tugging at his scanty beard. “But, as for his ghost coming back to guard the house—I thought you’d better wits than that Rebecca.”
Hardcastle, hearing his shepherd’s voice, had come down the passage; and, standing in the doorway, he laughed suddenly. They were so much a part of Logie, these two, with their friendly enmity and their strife of tongues.
“It’s no time for laughing, if all I hear be true,” said Brant, getting to his feet with a grim salute. “The Wilderness Folk are ripe for any sort of mischief.”
“Aye, but it will get no further than their tongues. I’m glad you’re here, though, Stephen. I’ve to ride over the tops to Norbrigg, and shall go easier in mind.”
“Don’t ye go, Master.”
“That’s what I’ve been dinning at him,” shrilled Rebecca. “When a man takes a wife to himself, he’s no right to go pleasuring abroad, with the Garsykes muck at large.”
“They’re broken men, I tell you. You with a gun, Brant, and Rebecca with her rolling-pin—you’re enough to hold the house.”
“And you’re taking the mistress into it?”