“I know as much as my mother taught me, when I was knee-high. There’s little I need to learn about the Lost Folk.”
“And you’re blithe, are you, because the Master fought with three, and left them to stir up their blessed hornets’ nest?”
“Blithe, if you put it that way—though it’s a queer kind of joy. It’s time these wastrels were hunted out, like rats about a stable. They breed like rats, too, and soon they’ll be eating us out of house and home.”
“In league with the Master, as you always were.”
“Yes, Geordie. He’s man enough to hunt the Lost Folk from their burrows.”
And now a queer thing happened. The Master and Geordie crossed themselves by stealth, not knowing why. The Lost Folk had been a running sore about the country-side in far-off Catholic times, and no man can deny his ancestors.
“Popish mummery,” snapped Rebecca, and crossed herself as she spoke without knowing it.
There came a sudden, lusty knocking at the door, and Brant the shepherd followed his knock, bringing the strong, sweet tang of the uplands with him.
“Naught to be scared of, Geordie,” said Rebecca. “You fancied three hundred Wilderness Men were tramping in—or was it a thousand?”
Brant glanced at Wiseman with kindly tolerance. “You wear a scared look on your face, Geordie.”