When nights are dark and drear and all,
Lad o’ the Wilderness.
She ceased her singing, and stood fronting Hardcastle. Supple and eager, a thing radiant as the sunlit day, she brought harsh memories back. He had been in slavery once to this beguilement, before he learned what lay behind it.
“Whose brat have you with you?” he asked.
“Widow Mathison’s.” Nita’s voice was clear and bell-like as of old, pleasant to hear. “You felled his uncle at the pinfold, and Murgatroyd has not recovered yet.”
“That’s welcome news.”
She glanced at him with such hope of old dominion that Brant went forward, disgruntled and at war with life. If the Master liked to be fooled a second time, that was no concern of a shepherd who had kept his eyes on the hills, instead of letting them rove women’s way.
“Have you forgotten Logie Woods?” asked Nita, tears in her grey, pleading eyes.
“Except in nightmare. Yes, I’ve forgotten those days, Nita.”
“Bitter to the end?”