Part 48 (2/2)

The Master faltered a moment.

”David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in low voice. ”Yo'

should, lad.”

The boy made a gesture of dissent.

”I canna,” he said petulantly.

”I would, lad,” the other advised. ”An' yo' don't yo' may be sorry after.”

As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness:

”I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal--he! he! So ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, for yen father--he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: 'Your time's come, dad,' says you, and w.a.n.gs me o'er the face--he! he! I mind it as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys will be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye don't succeed, why, try, try again--he! he!”

Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night.

As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, the wind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps.

”There 's trouble in the wind,” said the Master.

”Ay,” answered his laconic son.

All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue.

But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the star-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detaching themselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward--the vanguard of the storm.

In the distance was a low rumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor of heaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn.

The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness--no glimmer of light on any hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pa.s.s they reached out blind hands to feel along the rock-face.

A sea-fret, cool and wetting, fell. A few big rain-drops splashed heavily down. The wind rose with a leap and roared past them up the rocky track. And the water-gates of heaven were flung wide.

Wet and weary, they battled on; thinking sometimes of the cosy parlor behind; sometimes of the home in front; wondering whether Maggie, in flat contradiction of her father's orders, would be up to welcome them; or whether only Owd Bob would come out to meet them.

The wind volleyed past them like salvoes of artillery. The rain stormed at them from above; spat at them from the rock-face; and leapt up at them from their feet.

Once they halted for a moment, finding a miserable shelter in a crevice of the rock.

”It's a Black Killer's night,” panted the Master. ”I reck'n he's oot.”

”Ay,” the boy gasped, ”reck'n he is.” Up and up they climbed through the blackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was all about them; the clamor of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar of angry waters.

Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into the blackness along the path they had come.

”Did ye hear onythin'?” he roared above the m.u.f.fled soughing of the wind.

”Nay!” Andrew shouted back.

<script>