“When did you learn so much?” she asked, half-defiant still.
“Last night—no longer since than that—while I thought of all the uproar I’d brought to Logie-side.”
He glanced once more at Donald, then turned and went down the passage. Rebecca was bustling into the sunlit breakfast-room with a tray that held many tempting odours for a hungry man. She fussed pleasantly about the Master’s needs, as of old, but with a new solicitude.
“Storm-cocks were crying round Logie all the night,” she said, breaking the silence at last—“or else I dreamed they were.”
“You dreamed it, likely. This weather’s not for breaking yet.”
“Maybe not—but the Lost Folks’ weather is.”
“It had to break,” said Hardcastle.
Again the silence fell between them—the silence that was more ultimate than speech. None knew better than these two the staunchness that would be asked for by and by, when the Wilderness loosed its spite against them, and only a few were left to stand against the pestilence that would sweep over Logie-side—the pestilence of dread.
“Donald is sinking fast, by the look of him,” said the Master presently.
“He’ll not quit the house till he dies. Not a doubt o’ that; but he may sink very gradual. I’ve seen such cases.”