IIHardcastle left him there, and swung up the fields to Logie. His pace quickened with every stride, for Murgatroyd’s tale of peril to the house had found its mark. If it were true that an attack was planned, he might already be too late; and he thought ceaselessly of his home—and of Causleen.
When he topped the rise that looked down on Logie, he glanced eagerly up-dale. Prepared to see flames leaping high into the dusk, he saw only a steady lamplight glow that shone from the window over the porch—Causleen’s window—and instead of men’s frenzied shouts he heard only a farm-lad’s song as he went about the business of the mistals.
The relief was so quick, so urgent, that a sudden “God be thanked” escaped him. Murgatroyd had lied. He should have known as much, and saved himself the sick susp
