“There are three things Hardcastle of Logie cared for,” she said, counting them on slender fingers—“his house, his dog Roy, his pride. And Roy has gone the way of hemlock. So two are left him now.”
“It was you sent one of yours to Roy?”
“And next I shall send one to fire your house,” laughed Nita gently, counting the tally on her second finger. “Then there’ll be stillness for a long while, till your pride takes fright and dies.”
He grew only a little harder. She had killed his heart long since, and now had sent hemlock up to Roy. And she was glancing at him with softened eyes, was reaching out slim hands he would not take.
“I have the Lost Folk at call—could turn the storm from Logie, if—if you cared.”
Hardcastle was no bondsman now to Garsykes Men—still less to thraldom of any woman who thought to glamour him from that side of the country.
“You’re asking tribute, Nita,” he said. “Logie gives none to the Wilderness.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE GABBLE-RATCHET
Causleen was restless about the house of Logie. Her father dozed and roused himself by turns. Always in his waking moments he glanced at the pike that had gone to Flodden Field and back, and was eager to leave the roof that sheltered him. She watched the same pitiful struggle to rise and get his helpless limbs to ground, the same falling into stupor.