I wonder if--if they know. All those others. Rick and Miles, the
first Rupert and Richard and--"
"That spitfire, the Lady Richanda?" Rupert smiled. "Perhaps they do. No,
leave the bags here, Val. Let's see the house first."
Together the Ralestones crossed the terrace and came to stand by the
front door which still bore faint scars left by Indian hatchets. But
Rupert stooped to insert a very modern key into a very modern lock.
There was a click and the door swung inward before his push.
"The Long Hall!" They stood in something of a hesitant huddle at the end
of a long stone-floored room. Half-way down its length a wooden
staircase led up to the second floor, and directly opposite that a great
fireplace yawned mightily, black and bare.
A leather-covered lounge was directly before this, flanked by two square
chairs. And by the stairs was an oaken marriage chest. Save for two skin
rugs, these were all the furnishings.
But Ricky had crossed hesitatingly to that cavernous fireplace and was
standing there looking up as her brothers joined her.
"There's where it was," she said softly and pointed to a deep niche cut
into the surface of the stone overmantel. That niche was empty and had
been so for more than a hundred years--to their hurt. "That was where
the Luck--"
"How hold ye Lorne?" Rupert's softly spoken question brought the
well-remembered answer to Val's lips:
"By the oak leaf, by the sea wave, by the broadsword blade, thus hold we
Lorne!"
"The oak leaf is dust," murmured Ricky, "the sea wave is gone, the
broadsword is rust, how now hold ye Lorne?"
Her brothers answered her together:
"By our Luck, thus hold we Lorne!"
"And we've got to get it back," she said.
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