“Go, Jasper—and good luck to your riding,” she said quietly.
At two of the next afternoon Sir Jasper and Rupert got to saddle; and the father, knowing the way of his son’s heart, rode on ahead down the long, sloping bridle-track, leaving him to say good-bye to Nance Demaine.
Nance had been used to courage, as she was used to wind on the hills; but all her world was slipping from her now. She had given her kerchief to Will Underwood, from pity for a love that was dead and hidden out of sight; she had gone through stress and turmoil; and at the end of all Rupert, her one friend here, was riding out with his eyes on the hills, though she stood at his stirrup and sought his glance.
“God speed, Rupert!” she said.
He stooped to kiss her hand, but his thoughts were far away. “It seemed all past praying for, Nance—and it has come.”
“What has come?” she asked—peevishly, because she was tired and very lonely. “Fire, and sleeplessness, and the cries of wounded men—what else has come to Windyhough?”
“Not Stuart songs,” he answered gravely. “Stuart deeds are coming my way, Nance, at long last.”
“So you—are glad to go, Rupert?”
He looked down at her and for a moment he forgot the road ahead. He saw only Nance—Nance, whom he had loved from boyhood—Nance, with the wholesome, bonnie face that discerning men, who could see the soul behind it, named beautiful. All his keen young love for her was needing outlet on the sudden. She was so near, so friendly; and about her was a clear, eager starshine, such as lovers see.
The siege, and killing of a man here and there, stepped in and conquered this old weakness that was hindering him. “Nance, my dear,” he said, “I shall come back—when I’m your proven man.”