“But an arrow-head left on a gate? It can weaken the hardest—by degrees. A blow in the dark say, or a boulder in the road when you and yours drive home o’ nights—and your women-folk not safe at any time——”
“I have no women-folk,” said Hardcastle—“except old Rebecca. And she’s a match for any two of you.”
Still Jake laboured to get the better of him. He knew that, if he could persuade the Master of Logie to buy peace at the small price of twenty ewes, the Wilderness was free to go its way again, robbing the weak, never needing to tackle stronger folk than ale-silly drovers and the like.
“There’s the house of Logie. They say no woman could ever be to Hardcastle what Logie is.”
“That’s true.”
“We shall come to burn it, on near night.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Hardcastle, and told Brant to get busy with the ewes.
Wiseman paused for a backward glance, and the Master gripped his arm. “I’ll not hinder you either way—but, Geordie, you’ve to choose once for all.”
So Geordie, as his way was, went with those who had prevailed in the last battle. And Brant went driving the stolen ewes before him, more thankful for them than for all the hundreds that had gone before in safety. And Michael Draycott laughed.
“I could scarce tell you why,” he said, answering a question in the Master’s glance. “Perhaps I was thinking of me on my death-bed, and the bonnier times you kicked me up to share.”