“There’s a horse galloping, Simon,” said Rupert. “Did you hear him?”
“Ay, I heard him right enough; and I’m wondering who the rider is. It might be Sir Jasper, or it might be one o’ Maister Oliphant’s wild-riding breed——”
“Oh, you’re mistaken, both of you!” broke in Lady Royd fretfully. “The snow would deaden hoof-beats. I can hear none, I tell you.”
“Nay,” said Simon stolidly, “the road’s harder than the snow’s soft just yet. By and by it will be different, when the wind drops. We’ll be snowed up by morn, my lady.”
And now her untrained ear caught the tippety-tap, the ring of a gallop close at hand. “It may be Sir Jasper,” she echoed. “Oh, I trust you are right, Simon—so long as he rides unwounded,” she added, quick to find the despondent note.
The wind was settling fast. Now and then it yelped and whined like a dog driven out from home on a stark night; but the snow was falling ever a little more steadily, more thickly. And into the blur of snow and moonlight, across the last edge of the gloam, the galloping horseman rode through the open gate into the courtyard, and pulled up, and swung from saddle. He looked from one to another of those who stood this side the porch.
“Is that you, Master Rupert?” he asked, without sign of haste or emotion.
“Yes, Shackleton. What’s your news?”
“Sir Jasper’s lying at my farm. He’s ta’en a hurt, and sent me forrard—seeing he couldn’t come himself—and he said to me that you’re to keep Windyhough against a plaguy lot o’ thieves.”