“Good grief, our men come home,” she cried—“our men.”
The laughter spread, till the broken warriors rallied and made for their own women-folk with ready fists.
“It’s about time we went,” said Shepherd Brant. “If the men and the women both come out against us after their fratching’s done—why, God help us.”
They took a last look at this village that had conquered Logie-side for generations, and were turning homewards when a voice hailed them, and they saw the plump hussy breasting the rise of the pastures up from Garsykes.
“You’re Hardcastle of Logie?” she panted.
“Why, yes.”
“Then I’ve come to tell you two things. First, that you’ve a queer pluck of your own, to come so near us after we’ve put the token on Logie’s gate. A bit of a fool, I should call you.”
“Like most of us.”
She stood fronting them, her red arms folded across her ample breasts. “Aye, laugh while you can; for it’s no easy road you’ve chosen—’specially by night. Lord, what our men will put on you for this day’s work.”
She left them as quickly as she had come, and Brant’s face was sombre as Hardcastle and he crossed the bridge that would have seen their death if Storm had not run wild awhile since.