I was, in fact, in a more than usually quiet mood
that morning. The quiet had come upon me when the mist had begun to
creep about and inclose us. I liked it. I liked the sense of being shut
in by the soft whiteness I had so often watched from my nursery window
in the castle.
"People might be walking about," I said to Angus when he lifted me from
Sheltie's back.
"We couldn't see them. They might be walking."
"Nothing that would hurt ye, bairnie," he answered.
"No, they wouldn't hurt me," I said. I had never been afraid that
anything on the moor would hurt me.
I played very little that day. The quiet and the mist held me still.
Soon I sat down and began to "listen." After a while I knew that Jean
and Angus were watching me, but it did not disturb me. They often
watched me when they thought I did not know they were doing it.
I had sat listening for nearly half an hour when I heard the first
muffled, slow trampling of horses' hoofs. I knew what it was even before
it drew near enough for me to be conscious of the other sounds--the
jingling of arms and chains and the creaking of leather one notices as
troopers pass by. Armed and mounted men were coming toward me. That was
what the sounds meant; but they seemed faint and distant, though I knew
they were really quite near. Jean and Angus did not appear to hear them.
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