SHAMELESS WAYNE (continued 4)

Shameless Wayne reddened on seeing the occupants of the stile, and whispered to Janet, and the two of them turned quickly about, taking a cross-line back toward the moor.

"Flaired to be spoken to by honest folk," said Hiram.

"Flaired o' thy sour face, more like," snapped Martha.

Hiram was about to make one of his slow, exasperating responses when he clutched Martha by the arm and again pointed over the stile—not up the ploughed field this time, but across the pasture-land abutting on it.

"We shall know by an' by what Red Ratcliffe has in mind," he muttered; "dost see him yonder, Martha, crossing th' pasture? Ay, an' now he's following 'em up th' wallside."

"So he is. There's no mistaking that red thatch o' hisn—'twill set th' sun afire one bonnie day, I'm thinking. Does he mean to do th' Maister a hurt, think ye, Hiram?"

Hiram stretched himself with the air of a man who has work to do. "He's too far off yet for a pistol-shot; but he's quickening pace a bit, an' Lord knows what he's bent on. I reckon I'll just clamber ower th' wall here, Martha, an' wend down t' other side, and get a word wi' him as if 'twar chance like."

"Tak care o' thyseln, Hiram. There are some of us wod ill like to see harm come to thee."

But Hiram was deaf to blandishments. He had gone far enough for one morning, and, all else apart, he was no whit sorry to slip out of temptation's way.

"There's no telling when a Ratcliffe is about," he said, putting one leg over the low wall, "an' th' Maister is so throttle-deep i' foolishness just now that he's ripe-ready to fall into ony snare that's laid for him. Begow, Martha, but I don't know what th' world wod come to if there war no Hiram Hey to straighten it now and again!"

Martha sighed for the interrupted wooing as she lifted her pail from the stile. Hiram Hey moved surely, it might be, but life seemed short for such masterly painstaking slowness.

"It's war nor driving pigs to market, is getting Hiram to speak plain," she said to herself, setting off for home.—"Tha'll be back to thy dinner, Hiram?" she added over her shoulder.

"For sure I will. There's more nor dinner to tempt me down to Marsh," he cried, his rashness gaining on him now that he stood on the far side of the wall.

On no point save wedlock, however, did Hiram fail to know his purpose. He might have much to say about the young Master, but he had no mind to see harm come to him; and so he moved with a steady swing across the field, then turned sharp and crossed to the wall behind which Red Ratcliffe was creeping at a point some ten-score yards from the stile. He stopped then and leaned a pair of careless arms over the wall and looked everywhere but at the object of his manoeuvres, whose progress he had guessed to a nicety.

"Why, is't ye, Maister Ratcliffe?" he cried, letting his eyes fall at last on the tall, lean figure that stood not two yards away on the far side of the wall.

Ratcliffe glanced at him, but could not guess whether Hiram's stolid face hid any deeper thought than an idle wish to chatter. "'Tis I, plain enough," he growled.

"Nay, doan't fly at me—on a grand day like this, an' all. I thowt mebbe ye'd stepped on to th' Marsh land just to pick up a two-three wrinkles about farming. 'Tis not oft we're favoured wi' a sight o' ye down here."

"Dost think I need come here to learn any point of tillage?" laughed the other angrily.

"Well, I thowt it showed good sense i' ye. We're a tidy lot at Marsh, so folk say, an' I'm none blaming ye at Wildwater, ye understand for knawing a bit less about farming nor us. Your land's high, for one thing, an' lean as a scraped flint—I warrant it does your een good to see sich lovesome furrows as them, ye're walking ower."

"If speech can earn thee a cracked crown, thou'lt not long go whole of head," snapped Ratcliffe, beginning to move forward.

"Theer, theer! Th' gentry's allus so hot when a plain man strives to talk pleasant like to 'em. But it's live an' let live, I allus did say, an' sich fair spring weather as this hes a trick o' setting my tongue wagging." A sly glance at the other's back told him that Red Ratcliffe must be fetched up sharp if he were to be prevented from following Wayne of Marsh and Janet. "It sets other folk's tongues agate, too, seemingly," he added, glancing toward the hill-crest over which his Master and the girl were disappearing; "they mak a fine couple, doan't they, Maister, him an' Mistress Ratcliffe?"

Ratcliffe faced about. "Palsy take thee!" he cried. "Art thou a fool, only, Hiram Hey, or dost think to jest with thy betters?"

"Nay, I'm nobbut a fool, I reckon," said Hiram, shaking his head mournfully. "I can't say owt to please ye, 'twould seem, choose what, so I'd better hod my whisht. When I see a bonnie lass, an' th' finest lad i' th' moorside beside her—why, I thowt it could do no harm just to speak on 't, like."

"The finest lad in the moorside?" sneered Ratcliffe. "Since when did Wayne the Shameless earn his new title?"

"What, ye've not heard his praises then? I may hev my own opinion—ivery man hes a right to that—but Marshcotes an' Ling Crag can find nowt too good to say about him nowadays. Oh, ay, they all grant 'at th' Wayne land is th' best on th' moor, an' ots Maister th' handiest chap wi' sword or farming-tools. 'Tis sad, for sure, that there's such bad blood 'twixt ye an' th' Waynes; but this courtship 'ull mebbe cure it.—Nay, now, doan't be so hasty! I speak according to my lights; they may be poor uns, as Blind Tom o' Trawdon says, but they're all I've getten to go by."

Not a muscle of Hiram's face told how he was enjoying this skirmish with his enemy; only an added watchfulness of eye told that he half expected the other to strike him. His Master was out of sight now, and there was so much gained, whatever chanced to himself. But Ratcliffe lost his anger on the sudden, and turned to Hiram with something near to good-nature in his tone.

"Well, thou'rt dry, Hiram, with a shrewd wit of thy own, but I warn thee for thy own sake not to couple any Wayne with Mistress Ratcliffe in thy gossip.—Ay, and that calls another thing to mind; they say ye Wayne folk cut peats on the Wildwater land last summer, and ever since I've been seeking a chance to tell thee we'll have no more of that."

Hiram, wondering what lay under this change of front, answered slowly. "We're no thiefs, Maister; an' if our peat beds lie foot-to-heel wi' yourn, is that to say we'd ower-step th' boundary? Besides, we've no call to; our side o' th' bed yields better peats——"

"Well, I judge by what I'm told, and our farm-folk told us further that ye had carted some of their own peats as they lay up-ended for the drying."

"Begow, that's a likely tale!" cried Hiram, roused at last. "When we worked noon an' neet for a week, cutting an' drying an' carting, to be telled we——"

"There! Thou'rt honest, Hiram, and I'll take thy word for it," laughed Ratcliffe. "So the peats have lasted, have they? Ours are all but done after this cursed winter."

"Now, what's he at?" muttered Hiram. "When th' Ratcliffe breed hatches a civil word, they allus want stiff payment for 't.—Our peats are lasting fine, an' thankee," he said. "'Tis all a matter o' forethought, an' some fowk hesn't mich o' that. Oh, ay, we've getten a shed-full next to th' mistals, let alone th' stack at th' far-side o' th' yard; an' it's April now, so I reckon we shall see th' winter through. Ye niver catch us tripping down at Marsh."

"Not oft," said Ratcliffe, with a crafty smile.—"Faith, though, thy boasting would move better if it had less to carry, Hiram. We're all at fault once in a while, and I warrant that, if the peats will last, your bedding—bracken and the like,—has fallen short."

"Then ye'll warrant to little purpose," put in Hiram, with triumph, "they lig side by side, th' peats an' th' bedding—an' if ye'll step down an' tak a look at Marsh ye'll find a fairish heap o' both sorts."

He laughed at the humour of the invitation, and Red Ratcliffe followed suit as he turned on his heel.

"Another day, Hiram, and meanwhile I'll take word back to Wildwater, that we've all to learn yet from the wise men who dwell at Marsh."

"Scoff as ye will, ye're varry right there," muttered Hiram, as he too, went his way. "But I'd like to know what made ye frame to speak so civil all at once."

Red Ratcliffe was already moving across the field, with a light step and a face that was full of cunning glee; nor did he slacken pace until, half toward Wildwater, he saw Shameless Wayne parting from Janet at the corner of the crossroads. His face darkened for a moment, then cleared as he watched Shameless Wayne pass down the road to Marsh.

"I've learned two things worth the knowing to-day," he murmured, striding after his cousin, "and both should cut solid ground from under Wayne's feet. God, though, they did not part like lovers! Has Janet's needle-tongue proved over-sharp for Shameless Wayne? Ay, it must be so—and now she's full of sorrow for the quarrel, all in a maid's way, and droops like any wayside flower."

Janet turned as his step sounded close behind her; she glanced at the road which Wayne had taken, and then at Red Ratcliffe, but his manner was so open and free of its wonted subtlety that she told herself, with a quick breath of relief, that her secret was safe enough as yet.

"Would'st have company on the road, cousin?" he said lightly.

"I had better company before thou cam'st," she answered lifting her dainty brows.

He stared at her, thinking that she meant, at the bidding of one of her wilder moods, to make frank avowal of her meeting with Shameless Wayne. "Better company? Whose was't?" he snapped.

"Why, sir, my own." There was trouble deep-seated in her eyes, but her tone was light; for she had learned by hard experience to know that only mockery could keep Red Ratcliffe's surly heat of passion in any sort of check.

"Art something less than civil, Janet, to one who loves thee."

"Well, then, why fret thyself with such a thankless Mistress? I'm weary of hearing thee play the lover, and I tell thee so again—for the third time, I think, since yesterday."

"Thou'lt be wearier still before I've done with wooing thee. Hark, Janet; 'tis no light fancy, this——"

"Light or heavy, sir, 'tis all one to me. My thoughts lie off from wedlock."

He stopped and gripped her hands with sudden fury. "By God, if thy love turns to any but me," he cried, "I'll cut the heart out of the man who wins thee."

She pulled her hands away and stepped back a pace or two; and amid all his spleen he could not but admire the fine aloofness of her carriage. Not like a maid at all was she; heaving breast, and bright, watchful eye, and back-thrown head, seemed rather those of some wild thing of the moors, pursued and driven to bay among the wastes where hitherto she had lived out of sight and touch of men.

"So it comes to this, Red Ratcliffe?" she said slowly. "The sorriest fool at Wildwater dares to use force when I refuse him love?"

"'Twas the thought thou might'st love elsewhere that stung me," he muttered, cowed by her fury.

Again a passing doubt crossed her mind—a doubt lest he had reached the cross-roads in time to see her bid farewell to Shameless Wayne. "How should I love elsewhere?" she faltered.

Red Ratcliffe paused, wondering if he should loose his shaft at once, but he thought better of it. Janet was safe under hand at Wildwater for the nonce, and if he bided his time until her mood has less gustiness in it, he might use his knowledge to better purpose.

"Nay, I trust thy pride far enough, and thy fear of the Lean Man, to know thou'lt not wed worse blood than ours," he said softly; "but I'm not the only one at Wildwater that hungers for thee, and there are the Ryecollar Ratcliffes besides."

"And fifty more belike. What then, sir?"

"This—that I'll have thee, girl, if every Ratcliffe of them all says nay," he muttered savagely.

She glanced at him, then turned her back and moved to the far side of the road. "Art a man sometimes in thy words," she said, over her shoulder. "If only thou could'st show deeds to back them—why, I think I'd forgive thee the folly of thy love for its passion's sake. There, cousin! I'm weary o the talk, and my steps will not keep pace with thine to Wildwater."

"Thou askest deeds? Well, thou shalt have them before the week is out," he said, and struck across the moor. At another time he would not have accepted such easiful dismissal; but he knew the game was his now, and there was nothing to be gained by matching his wit with hers through two long miles.

"What ailed me to walk so openly with Wayne of Marsh?" mused Janet, following at her leisure. "I had as lief we were seen by grandfather himself as by yonder spiteful rogue— And all to what end? Wayne is against me, too, though his face cannot hide"—she stopped, and her trouble melted into a low laugh—"cannot hide what I would see there."

Red Ratcliffe did not go straight into the hall as he reached Wildwater. Some dark instinct, begotten of fight and plot and brute passion barely held in check, drew him to the pool that underlay the house. The look of the sullen water, the old stories that were buried in its nether slime, touched a kindred chord in him, and he gleaned a sombre joy from standing at the edge and counting again the dead which tradition gave the pool. He was roused by a touch on his shoulder, and looking round he saw old Nicholas watching him with a grim air of approval.

"It has a speech of its own, eh, lad? And wiser counsel under its speech than most I hear," said Nicholas, pointing to the water.

"Ay, it has hid a Wayne or two aforetime, and it seems to crave more such goodly food. Yet 'tis strange, sir, that Barguest is said to lie here o' nights. 'Tis he, they say, that kills the fish and keeps the moor-fowl from nesting on the banks. What should the guardian of Marsh House do sleeping cheek by jowl with us?"

The Lean Man quailed for a moment, as he had quailed when Nanny Witherlee told him how he had crossed Barguest on the Marsh threshold. But the disquiet passed. "Tush, lad!" he cried. "Leave Waynes to their own old wives' tales, and come to a story with more marrow in 't. Didst learn what I sent thee out to learn?"

Red Ratcliffe lost his brief touch of superstition. "Ay—and that without going nearer than half a league to Marsh. As I was on my way there I chanced on Hiram Hey, and the wry old fool told me all I asked with never a guess at my meaning."

"There's enough, is there?"

"And to spare. I've seen to the hemlock, too, and one of the lads is to go——"

"Hold thy peace!" cried Nicholas, chiding him roughly. "Here's Janet, and she must guess naught of this; 'twould only fright her."

Red Ratcliffe moved away as his cousin came up, for he had no wish to make further sport for her yet awhile. "Fright her, poor lambling, would it?" he muttered. "The Lean Man's care for her is wondrous—but what if he knew that I had learned more to-day than ever he sent me out in search of?"

"Come here, Janet," said Nicholas, as the girl halted, doubtful whether he wanted speech of her. "There has been somewhat on my tongue this long while past, and every time I see thee come in from these fond walks of thine, I read two things more clearly."

"And what are they, grandfather?" she said, slipping a coaxing hand into his.

"That the wind gives thee beauty enough to tempt any man—and that there's danger in it so long as we're at feud with the Waynes."

"But that is an old tale, sir," she pouted, "and—and no harm has come to me as yet."

"The more cause to fear it then, to-morrow, or the next day after. See, lass, I would not deal hardly with thee, but I'll not give way on this one point, plead as thou wilt. There are Ratcliffes in plenty who want thee in wedlock, and 'tis time thou hadst a strong arm about thee. Thou'lt wander less abroad, I warrant, soon as thou hast a goodman."

"But, grandfather, I do not want to——"

"Be quiet, child! And let an older head take better care of thee than thou wilt ever take of thyself. Besides, they are so hot for thee, one and another, that there's danger of a feud among ourselves if the matter is not settled one way or the other. Red Ratcliffe asked me for thee only yesternight."

"If the world held him and me, sir, I would go to the far side of it and leave him the other half," she cried, with childish vehemence.

"Well, well, there are others. I gave him free leave to win thee if he could, and he must do his own pleading now."

They stood by the water-side awhile in silence, the girl in sore fear of what this new mood of her grandfather's might bring, and Nicholas returning to the foolish scrap of goblin-lore with which Red Ratcliffe had just now disquieted him. Do as he would, the Lean Man could not hide from himself that a dread the more potent for its vagueness, had been creeping in on him ever since he learned what had lain on the Marsh doorway when he went to nail his token on the oak. Broad noon as it was now, the light lay heavy on the water, and Nicholas could not keep his eyes from it, nor his mind from the legend that named it the Brown Dog's lair.

"Janet," he said, looking up at her with a light in his keen eyes which she had never yet seen there, "there's a weak link, they say, in every man's chain of life, and it has taken me three-score years to find out mine. This Barguest that they talk of? Dost credit him, lass?"

She glanced quickly at him, puzzled by the vague terror in his voice. "I have lived with the voices of the moor," she answered gravely, "till I can doubt plain flesh and blood more easily than Barguest, and the Sorrowful Woman, and——"

"Pest!" he broke in impatiently. "'Tis fitting a maid should let her fancies stray. But a grown man, Janet? There! The pool breeds more than the one sort of vapour, and we'll stay no longer by it.—Think well, lass, on what I said of wedlock, for thou'lt have to make early choice."

Hiram Hey, meanwhile was sitting beside the kitchen hearth at Marsh, watching Martha clear the board after dinner; for he always dined at the house, thought he slept and took his other meals at the Low Farm. The rest of the serving-folk had gone to this or that occupation, and Hiram was minded to take up his wooing again at the exact spot where he had left it an hour or two earlier.

"I've been thinking o' things, Martha, sin' I saw thee looking so bonnie-like this morn," he said.

"What sort o' things?" she asked, demurely sweeping the table free of crumbs.

Hiram ruffled the frill of hair under his chin, and smiled with wintry foolishness. "Well, what's wrang for a young un like th' Maister is right enough for a seasoned chap like me. I'm rather backard i' coming forrard, tha sees, but it cam ower me t' other day that I mud varry weel look round an' about me; an' if I could find a wench 'at war all I looked for i' a wench——"

"Ay, what then, Hiram?"

He paused, and shuffled his feet among the heap of farmyard mud which had already fallen from his boots. "Why, there's niver no telling—niver no telling at all," he said, with an air of deep wisdom.

"Sakes, he's a slow un to move, is Hiram," muttered the girl, losing patience at last.

"Well, I mun be seeing after things, I reckon, or there'll be summat getting out o' gear," said Hiram, rising and stretching himself in very leisurely fashion.

"Ay, tha'rt famous thrang," flashed Martha. "Comes moaning an' groaning, does Hiram, at after he'd done his day, an' swears th' wark goes nigh to kill him. An' this is what it comes to most days, I reckon—loitering by stiles, an' talking foolishness to wenches 'at are ower busy to hearken——"

"Nay, lass, nay! I wod liefer we didn't part fratching."

"Well, hast getten owt to say?" she asked, facing him abruptly.

"Say? Well, now, I'm backard i' coming forrard, as I telled thee—but tha'rt as snod-set-up a wench as iver——"

"Thanks for nowt. Good-day, Hiram. Tha'rt backard i' most things, I'm thinking," said Martha, flouncing out into the yard.

Hiram looked after her awhile, then shook his head. "I war right to go slow," he murmured. "Women's allus so hasty, as if they war bahn to dee to-morn, an' all to get done afore their burial.—Well, I mun see to yond tummit seeds, I reckon; but I wod like to know what Red Ratcliffe war up to; summat he'd getten at th' back on his mind, but what it war beats me."

And something Red Ratcliffe had in mind; but what it was, and how nearly it touched those at Marsh, Hiram was not to learn this side the dawn.

CHAPTER X

WHAT CROSSED THE GARDEN-PATH

Shameless Wayne, returning late on the day which had witnessed Hiram Hey's cautious efforts toward wedlock, found his step-mother standing at the courtyard gate, a look of trouble in her face and her eyes fixed on the rounded spur of moor above. Wayne's heart was growing daily harder against the strong, and softer where any sort of weakness was in case; and the mad woman's plight, her frailty and friendlessness, seemed to strike a fresh note of pity in him at each chance meeting.

"What ails thee, little bairn?" he said, slipping from the saddle and coming close to her.

She put one hand into his, with the trustfulness which only he was sure of winning from her. "I have been frightened, Ned. It was to have been my wedding-morn, and I dressed all in white and went to church—and instead of the altar there was a great grave opened, and men fighting all about it—and I could not understand."

"Never try. 'Tis over and done with long since; the grave is shut down tight,—and all your ghosties with it, little one."

"Is it over and done with?" she said.

Her voice was passionless and clear, and Wayne was growing more and more perplexed of late to know what lay beneath these sudden, wandering questions of his step-mother's.

"Ay, 'tis over," he said; "how should it be else? See how the leaves are greening, and tell me who would think of graves on such an April eve as this?"

"The leaves are greening? Nay, thou'rt jesting with me, they're reddening, like the sun up yonder—like the long wisp of sky that trails across the brink-field there. And the graves, too, are red—they keep opening, opening, and I dread to look for fear of what may come from them. Hold both my hands tight, Ned—it should have been my wedding-morn, and a great trouble came, and now I can see no green fields, nor trees, for the red mist that hugs them. Dear, thou'lt not leave me?"

"Nay, I'll not leave thee, little one," began Wayne, and turned as a footstep sounded close behind them.

Hiram Hey, crossing from the mistals, had caught sight of the Master and had stopped to ask for his orders touching the morrow's farm-work—orders which he received day by day with the same grudging, half-scornful air, in token that the new rule liked him little.

"Th' brink-field is sown, an' we're through wi' ploughing them lower fields. What's to be done next, Maister?" he asked with a side glance of curiosity at Mistress Wayne.

Wayne was not minded to think of farming-matters to-night; and Hiram, noting his mood, took a wry sort of pleasure in holding him to the topic.

"I thowt he'd get stalled afore so varry long," said the old man to himself. "Ay, he can't bide to think o' crops to-neet."

He began to rock with one foot the mossy ball that had lain so long under the right-hand pillar of the gateway; and the set of his body spoke of leisure and of obstinacy.

"Well?" he asked at last. "There's marrow i' what ye said to me a while back, Maister. Sleep ower th' next day's wark, an' ye go wi' a ready hand to it i' th' morn."

Wayne, following the motion of Hiram's foot with impatient spleen, tried to bring his mind round to the matter, but could not. His meeting with Janet had left him out of heart and spent with the old struggle between love and kinship.

"Pest take thee, come to me after supper for thy orders," he began. Then, pointing to the stone, "As a start," he added, "thou canst set that ball up on the gateway top. It wears an untidy look, and every day I've meant to tell thee of it."

"Th' gate-ball? Ye'll not know, happen, that it fell on th' varry day your mother died? An' th' owd Maister said 'at it should lig theer, being a sign i' a way o' speaking."

Hiram could always find excuse for evading a troublesome bit of work; but his words brought a stranger light to the Master's face than he had looked to see there. Superstitious at all times, the strained order of these latter days had rendered Wayne well-nigh as full of fancies as the Sexton's wife; the stone here was a sign, and as such he would not tamper with it.

"It shall lie there, Hiram," he said slowly, "until the old Master is avenged on those who slew him. 'Tis a token, haply.—Come, little bairn," he added, turning to his stepmother. "Come with me while I put my horse in stable, and then we'll sup together."

Hiram turned over the ball after Wayne had gone. "Lord save us, there's a power o' fooil's talk wends abroad," he growled. "What hes yond lump o' stone getten to do wi' th' feud? A token, is't? Well, I'm saved a bit o' sweating, so I'll noan fratch about it."

Mistress Wayne followed Ned quietly, as some dumb favourite might have done, and watched him stable his horse, leaning against the doorway the while and prattling of a hundred foolish matters. Then she fell silent for a space, and Shameless Wayne, glancing up, saw that she was crying bitterly. Angered at his own impotence to help her, he spoke more gruffly than his wont.

"Some one has frightened you. Who was 't?" he said.

His peremptoriness seemed to bring back her memory. "'Twas—what call you him?—the man with the hard eyes and the lean face, and one ear clipped level with his cheek. He met me on the road this afternoon——"

"What, Nicholas Ratcliffe?"

"Ratcliffe—yes. He lives in a great drear house above Wildwater Pool, and once—nay, I cannot recall, 'tis so long ago; but I think he was cruel to me when I went to seek my lover. And to-day he stopped me as I tried to pass him by."

Wayne finished rubbing down his horse, then turned quietly. "What said he?" he asked.

"Ned, don't look so stern! It frightens me. And thy voice is hard, too, as it was when I heard thee bid them throw the vault-stone down."

"There are matters that make a man hard, little bairn. Was Nicholas Ratcliffe cruel to you?"

"Oh, so cruel," she said, shivering. "He looked through and through me, Ned, and laughed as I never heard any one laugh before, and asked me where I had found shelter. And when I told him he laughed again, and said that soon there would be none at Marsh to give me shelter. And then——"

"Aye—and then?"

"He—he told me all that he meant to do to thee, Ned; and when I tried to run away he held me by the arm, and hurt me—see! I carry the marks of it."

She lifted her sleeve and held out her arm to him; and he nodded gravely as he saw the red finger-prints clear marked in red upon the dainty flesh.

"He hates thee, Ned," she went on. "Why should he hate thee? I seem to have heard something—nay, it has gone!—what has he against thee, dear?"

Shameless Wayne laughed grimly. "Less than I have against him, bairn. God, could he make sport of such as you?"

"Shall you kill him, Ned?" she asked, looking up suddenly.

He started at the question, voiced in so quiet and babyish a tone. "God willing, little bairn," he said, and was for crossing to the house, but she led him through the wicket that opened on the garden.

"Come see my flowers first, Ned," she pleaded, forgetful altogether of her fright. "There's a clump of daffy-down-dillies opening under the wall, and I bade them keep their eyes open till thou cam'st to say good-night to them.—'Tis summer-time, I think; look at the lady's slipper yonder, and the celandines—Is't not strange there should be so sweet a spot among these dreadful moors? I feel safer here always—as if none could do me hurt while I stayed with the flowers. Ned, wilt not stay here, too? The man with the hard face would never think to look for thee among the flowers, would he?"

"May be not," he answered lightly.—"See, bairn, your daffies have closed their eyes after all; they could not hold up their heads for weariness, I warrant, when they found me so late in coming."

"Shall I wake them, Ned?" she asked, looking gravely from the flowers to his face.

"Nay, let them be till morning, and then I'll have a word with them. 'Tis supper-time, bairn, and we must not keep Nell waiting."

"Nell does not shrink away from me as she did a little while ago," said Mistress Wayne.

He held his peace, wondering that this elf-like woman should note so many trifling matters that might well have escaped her; and he was glad to think that Nell's heart was softening to the other's helplessness.

Nell was already at table, with the lads and Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, who had just ridden across to see that all was well at Marsh. The lads were eyeing a saddle of mutton wistfully, and their faces brightened soon as Shameless Wayne took his place at the head of the board.

"Hungry, lads?" he said, with a kindly glance at them. "Well, and should be, after the rare work we've done to-day with sword and spear—Rolf, there'll be four more fighting men at Marsh by and by; these youngsters take to cut and parry like ducks to water."

"Ye'll need more fighting men at Marsh," said Rolf, gravely, and would have said more, but checked himself.

"Likely," said Shameless Wayne, glancing at his brothers. "How fares it with the wounded up at Cranshaw?"

"As well as might be. We took some deepish cuts a fortnight since, and they'll take time to heal."

Mistress Wayne ceased playing with her food, and looked steadfastly at Rolf. "Ratcliffe of Wildwater said 'twould never heal, when he met me on the road; he saw me looking at his ear, I fancy, for he said 'twould never heal till Ned yonder had paid his price for the blow. Ay, but he's hard, hard! I shall hide Ned among the flowers lest they trap him some day on the moors."

Nell, seated next to her, whispered some soothing speech; scorn was in the girl's face yet, but it was plain that compassion was ousting her fierce hatred of her step-mother. Wayne of Cranshaw glanced across at Ned with gloomy wonder. The boys nudged one another, and laughed a little. But Mistress Wayne was already following a fresh fancy, and she paid no heed to the deep pause that followed her speech.

"See the moon peeping through the lattice!" she cried, moving to the door. "It shames the candle-light in here; thou'lt not be angered, Ned, if I slip away to the garden? The fairy-folk come out of the daffy-bells, and they'll miss me sadly if I do not go."

"But, bairn, you've eaten naught."

"Why, how fond thou art! The fairies will not talk to me unless I seek them fasting."

She waved a light hand to him at the door and was gone. Griff, the eldest of the lads, looked after her and then at Shameless Wayne.

"There'll be more than fairies sporting in the moonlight—something plump-bodied and more toothsome," he cried. "The low pasture will be thick with hares; can we go down, Ned, and take the dogs with us?"

Shameless Wayne did not answer just at once; then, "Ay, ye can go," he said, "if ye'll keep to the low lands. The Wildwater hares are friskier, but ye must be content with worse sport. Dost promise, Griff?"

"'Twould be the best sport of all to catch the Lean Man out of doors and set the dogs at him," said Griff, with a laugh.

"Doubtless—but if Wildwater is in your minds, I shall keep you safe at home."

"Well, then, we promise, Ned. Wilt let me have thy dog Rover? There's none at Marsh as quick on a hare's track as he."

"Ned, ought they to go," put in his sister. "'Tis late, and you never know what cover hides a Ratcliffe."

"Pish! We must not coddle growing lads.—Off with you, and if ye take Rover, see that ye bring him back again; I doubt he will not answer to your whistle as he does to mine."

"They're likely lads, and stiff-set-up," said Wayne of Cranshaw, as the four of them raced pell-mell out of the hall. "But thou need'st more than these about thee, Ned."

Shameless Wayne squared his jaw, after a fashion that brought back his father to Nell's mind. "I've said nay once and for all to what thou hast in mind," he answered. "What, leave Marsh and show the white rabbit-scut to Nicholas Ratcliffe?"

"Show that thou hast sense enough to know when the odds are all against thee. I tell thee, ye Marsh Waynes would never learn when to give ground. There's fresh trouble brewing, Ned—and 'tis aimed all at thee."

"How, at me? Has the Lean Man, then, vowed friendship with Cranshaw and with Hill House?"

"Nay, but his hate is hottest against thee. He thought thee a fool, and he found thee somewhat different; and he blames thee altogether for their defeat in the kirkyard."

"How dost learn all this, Rolf?"

"The Lean Man makes a boast of it up and down, and only to-night as I came through Marshcotes, they told me he had sworn to pin thy right hand to thy own door."

"Why, that was what Mistress Wayne said just now," cried Nell. Her eyes were fixed on her brother, and there was grief and something near to terror in them.

"Ay, her wandering talk hit straightish to the truth," said Wayne of Cranshaw. "Whether 'twas guess-work on her part, or whether she did meet Nicholas in the road, I cannot say—but any village yokel will tell thee what the Lean Man's purpose is. See, Ned, there are eight of us at Cranshaw; come and bring all thy folk with thee."

Shameless Wayne shook his head, and would have spoken, but the door was burst open suddenly and his brothers stood on the threshold, an unwonted gravity in their mien.

"The dogs are poisoned, Ned," said Griff.

"Poisoned? What, all of them?"

"All. When we went into the courtyard we found Rover stretched by the well, his muzzle half in the water, and his body twisted all out of shape."

"Hemlock," muttered Ned. "'Twas grown on Wildwater soil, I'll warrant."

"Then we went to the kennels, and found the doors open, and all the dogs but one laid here and there. The white bitch was missing, but she has gone to some quiet corner, likely, to die."

"God's curse on them!" cried Shameless Wayne, getting to his feet. "Why should they fight with the poor brutes when they dare not face their master?"

"'Tis but one more argument," said Rolf quietly. "Come to Cranshaw, Ned; it is witless to forego a plain chance of safety."

"Take Nell and the women-folk, if they will go—but the lads and I stay here while there's a roof to the four walls. Dost think I have not smirched the Marsh pride enough in times past?"

"That's done with, Ned; none doubts thee now, and thou'lt lose naught by seeking a safer dwelling."

"The Lean Man wants me. Well, he knows where to find me. Did father play hide-and-seek, leaving the old place to be burned to the ground, when the feud was up aforetime?"

"He stayed—as thou wilt do," said Nell, her pride undaunted by any ebb and flow of danger.

"But, Nell, 'tis stubbornness—'tis folly—" began Wayne of Cranshaw.

"That may be," answered the girl, "but it is Wayne stubbornness, and I was reared on that. I stay, and Ned stays, and with God's help we'll worst the Lean Man yet."

Shameless Wayne crossed to where his sister sat and laid a hand on her shoulder. "We'll worst him yet, Nell," he said, and turned to leave them to their confidences. "Why, where are the lads gone?" he cried, staring at the open door, through which a gentle breeze was blowing.

"They feared to miss their sport if they asked leave a second time," said Rolf, "and so they slipped away while thy back was turned to them."

"Young fools!" muttered Shameless Wayne, as he went out. "Could they not keep to home when those who strew hemlock privily are within pistol-shot?—I'll walk round the yard and outbuildings, Rolf, and see if aught else has gone amiss."

"Hadst better have company," said Wayne of Cranshaw, moving to his feet.

"Nay. The times are hard for love-making; take thy chance while thou hast it, Rolf, or it may not come again."

Rolf looked after him, and wondered at his bitterness. But Nell, remembering Janet Ratcliffe, knew well enough which way her brother's thoughts were tending, and she sighed impatiently.

"'Tis well to love by kinship," she said.

Rolf missed her meaning, being full of his own fears for her.

"I've loved thee well, dear, and I fear to lose thee," he said, after a silence. "Wilt wed me out of hand and let me take thee safe to Cranshaw?"

"Not yet, Rolf. I cannot." Her voice was low; but he gleaned scant hope even from its tenderness.

"Think," he urged. "It is hard to have waited for the good day—waited through summer heat and winter frost, Nell—and then to see such danger lying on the threshold as may rob me of my right in thee. Thou know'st these Ratcliffe swine; a woman's honour is cheap as a man's life to them. Lass, give me the right to have thee in keeping day and night."

"Some day, Rolf—but not yet."

"Thou hast scant love for me, or none at all," he flashed, pacing moodily up and down the hall.

"That is not true, Rolf, and thou know'st it; but I have love for the old home, too, and love for Ned. I'm young, dear, as years go, but there's none save me to mother them at Marsh. What would Ned do, what would the lads do, if I left them to fight it out alone? And Ned"—she faltered a little—"Ned is very new to repentance, and who knows how the wind would shift if he had none to care for him?"

"He would follow thee to Cranshaw—where I would have him be."

"Nay, but he would not! If he stood alone, without a sword to his hand, he would wait here for what might come."

Still he pleaded with her, and still she held to her resolve. And at last he gave up the struggle.

"None knows what the end will be, but we must win through it somehow," he said.

And then, her object gained, she crept close to his embrace, and, "Rolf," she whispered, "how can Ned fight the Lean Man and all his folk? Is it true that he is the first victim chosen?"

"I fear it, lass."

"But, dear, I cannot bear to lose him! I cannot."

"What, all thy bravery gone? There, hide thy face awhile—the tears will ease thee. There's hope for the lad yet, Nell, for he means to live and he has a ready sword-arm."

Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had gone the round of the farm-buildings, railing at the wantonness which had bidden the Ratcliffes kill the best hounds in Marshcotes; but beyond the dogs' stiffened bodies he had found no sign of mischief. Restless, and ill-at-ease about the lads' safety, he wandered into the garden in search of the frail little woman who had gone thither to seek the fairies. He said nothing of his troubles nowadays to Nell or to any of his kinsfolk; but Mistress Wayne offered the trusty, unquestioning sympathy that a horse or any other dumb animal might give, and day by day he was growing more prone to drop into confidences when he found himself alone with her, half-smiling at his folly, yet gleaning a sort of consolation from the friendship.

She was standing by the sun-dial when he found her to-night. The moonlight was soft in her neatly ordered hair and flower-like face, and Shameless Wayne thought that surely she was nearer kin to the other world of ghosts than to this workaday earth which had already proved too hard for her.

"Well, were the fairies kind to you?" he asked, leaning against the dial and watching the moon-shadows play across her face.

She pointed to a green ring traced in the blue-white dewdrops that gemmed the lawn. "Yes, they were kind," she said, "I'm friends with them, thou know'st, and they came and danced for me round yonder ring."

"And what has come of them? Did I scare them all away, little bairn?"

"Oh, no," she answered gravely. "They guessed, I think, that I was weary of them, and scampered off before thou camest. Wilt mock me, Ned, if I tell thee something?"

He did not answer—only shook his head and put his arm more closely round her.

"It is all so dark and strange. I seemed to fall asleep long, long ago, and then I woke to a new world—a world of mists and moonlight, Ned, where the human folk move like shadows and only the fairies and the ghosts are real. The fairies claimed me for their own, and I was content until I saw the wee birds nesting and the spring come in. But now I'm hungry, Ned, for something that the fairies cannot give." She stopped; then, "Didst meet thy lady-love to-day?" she asked.

Wayne's eyes went up toward the hills that cradled Wildwater. "Hast a queer touch, bairn, on a man's hidden wounds," he said, after a silence. "Did I meet my lady-love? Nay, but I met one who is playing the will-o'-the-wisp to my feet—one whom I love or loathe. Who told thee, child, that I had seen her?"

"I think it was Hiram Hey; he was telling Nanny when I went into the kitchen how he had seen you cross the moors with her."

"Trust Hiram to pass on the tale!" muttered Wayne.

"Ned, 'tis a drear world, and thou'rt not right to make it harder," said the little woman, turning suddenly to him. "Somewhere, in a far-away land, I once met love and scomed him; and I have lacked him ever since, dear."

He bent toward her eagerly; so grave and full of wit she seemed, and haply she was a better riddle-reader than he during these brief moments when she slipped into touch again with the things of substance. But the light was already pale in her childish eyes, and soon she was laughing carelessly as she traced the moon's shadow on the dial with one slender forefinger.

"See, Ned!" she cried. "It points to mid-day, when all the while we know 'tis long past gloaming. I wouldn't keep so false a time-piece if I were thou; the dandelions make better clocks at seeding-time."

The night was warm, and the moon-shadows of the gable-ends scarce flickered on the grass; but on the sudden a little puff of icy wind came downward from the moors and whimpered dolefully.

"The night wears shrewd, bairn, and we've talked moon-nonsense long enough," said Wayne sharply, turning to go indoors. He was sore that she had lost the thread of reason just when he most needed guidance.

But Mistress Wayne was shivering under a keener wind than ever was bred in the hollow of the sky, and her face was piteous as she followed her companion with her eyes. "Ned, canst not see it?" she stammered.

"See what? The shadows lengthening across your fairy-ring?" he said, impatiently.

"He crept behind thee—he's fawning to thy hand—shake him off, Ned, shake him off! Such a great beast he is——"

Shameless Wayne glanced sharp behind him. "By the Heart, 'tis Barguest she sees!" he muttered.

"Thou canst not help but see him—his coat is brown against thy darker wear—he's pressed close against thee, now, as if he fears for thee."

He could see naught, but there were those who had the second sight, he knew, and the old dreads crept cold about his heart. "Would God the lads were safe indoors," he muttered.

"How if it be thou he comes to warn?" she whispered.

He laughed harshly. "I've over many loads on my shoulders, bairn, to slip them off so lightly; but the lads are young to life yet, and full of heart—'twould be like one of Fortune's twists to send them across the Lean Man's path."

"Hark, Ned, didst hear?" she broke in, as a low whistle sounded through the leafing garden-trees.

Shameless Wayne could not find his manhood all at once; but at last he shook himself free of dread a little. "Ay, I heard some poor hound whimpering—it has crept away to die, belike, after eating what those cursed Ratcliffes dropped. Come, child! There's naught save ague to be gained by staying among the night dews here."

CHAPTER XI

HOW THE RATCLIFFES RODE OUT BY STEALTH

The moon was crisp and clear over the low pastures when Griff and his brothers went down for the hunting. Wayne of Cranshaw had hit the truth when he said that they feared denial from Shameless Wayne, and so had slipped out quietly while their elders were discussing the old vexed topic as to whether Marsh should be left to its fate.

"Ned will not leave the old place," said Griff, as they crossed the first field.

"Not while he has us to help him to fight," answered Bob, the youngest, drawing himself to as full a height as his fourteen years allowed.

"There's naught in it," grumbled a third. "Ned would not let us go to the kirkyard that day, and there was a merry fight—and now all's as tame as a chushat on the nest. I thought the Lean Man would come down and let us have a spear-thrust at him; but we never see a Ratcliffe now, and 'tis hard after learning so many tricks of fence."

"Bide awhile," answered Griff sagely. "There'll be frolic yet if we can but wait for it. Dost think they poisoned the dogs for naught?"

"For spleen, likely, because Ned worsted them the other day; but if they do no more than that—Griff, 'twould have been rare sport to have gone up to Wildwater to-night."

Griff halted and glanced wistfully at the surly crest of moor above. "Nay; we gave our promise," he said, with manifest reluctance.

"How are we to hunt without the dogs?" put in Rob. "We left all our weapons in hall when we crept out so hastily—Good hap, there goes a fine fat fellow! We're missing the best of the moonlight with all this talk of a Lean Man who never shows his face."

They all four stood and watched the hare swing up the field and over the misty crest; knobby and big and brown the beast showed, and his stride was like the uneasy gallop of a horse whose knees are stiffening.

"We'll miss no more such chances," cried Griff. "There are two dogs at the Low Farm; let's rouse old Hiram Hey out of his bed and get the loan of them."

Hiram Hey was not abed, as it chanced, but a rushlight was in his hands and his foot on the bottom stair when Griff's masterful rat-tat sounded on the door.

"What's agate?" he growled, opening the door a couple of inches. "Christian folk should be ligged i' bed by now, i'stead o' coming an' scaring peaceable bodies out o' their wits——"

"Thou'st little wit to be scared out of, Hiram," laughed Rob.

The door opened a foot-breadth wider. "Oh, it's ye, is 't? Ay, there's shameless doings now up at Marsh. I' th' owd Maister's days ye'd hev been abed at sunset, that ye wod."

"We carry arms now, and know how to use them; so keep a civil tongue in thy tousled head," said Griff, with a great air of dignity. "We want to borrow thy dogs, Hiram."

"Oh, that's it? Well, how if th' dogs are anot to be hed at ony lad's beck an' call?"

"We'll take them without a by-your-leave in that case. Come, Hiram, the hares are cropping moon-grass so 'twould make thy old mouth water just to see them."

"Let 'em crop for owt I care. What's comed to th' Marsh kennels that ye mud needs go borrowing?"

"Hemlock has come to them, and there's not one left alive."

Hiram Hey whistled softly, and set down his candle and came out into the moonlight. "That's not a bad start for a war finish," he said, turning his head to the low hill which hid the house from him, as if expecting some sound of tumult.

"Well, 'tis done, and we're missing sport the while," said Griff, with a lad's peremptoriness. "I can hear those dogs of thine yelping in the yard yonder. Loose them, Hiram."

Hiram did as he was bid, with many a grumble by the way; then stood and watched the lads go racing over the pastures, the dogs running fast in front of them. "There's bahn to be trouble, choose who hears me say 't," he muttered. "Ay, I knew how 'twould be when I see'd young Maister fly-by-skying wi' yond Ratcliffe wench; 'tis a judgment on him, sure. Ay, 'tis a judgment; an' hard it is that we should be killed i' our beds for sake of a lad's unruliness.—What, th' dogs is gi'eing tongue already? Well, I'd hev liked to see th' sport, if my legs war a thowt less stalled wi' wark."

Hiram had been asleep a good two hours before the chase was over. Pasture after pasture was drawn, the lads' zest waxing keener with each fresh kill, until they had more hares than they could carry.

"Look at the moon, lads! She's nearing Worm's Hill already, and half a league from home," panted Griff, as he tried to add the last hare to his load.

"Ned will have somewhat to say to this," laughed Rob; "but faith 'twas worth all the scolding he can cram into a week."

"Ay, was it, but we'll put the best foot forward now. Let's leave half the hares under the sheep-hole in the wall yonder, or we shall never get back to Marsh till midnight.—There. They'll keep till morning safe enough, unless some shepherd's dog should nose them."

They set off at a steady trot, stopped at the Low Farm to close the yard gate on their borrowed dogs, and then took a straight course for Marsh. But breath failed them as they neared the homestead; their pace dwindled to a walk, and not even noisy Rob could muster speech of any sort. The moon was out of sight now behind the house, leaving the field that hugged the outbuildings in a grey half-light—a light so puzzling to the eyes that Griff, when he thought he saw the dim figure of a man crossing from the peat-shed to the yard, told himself that fancy was playing tricks with him. But Rob had seen the figure, too, and he clutched his brother's arm.

"What is that moving yonder?" he whispered.

A second figure, and a third, came shadowy-vague through the low doorway of the shed, and Griff could see now that each man carried an armful of peats, or ling, or bracken—he could not tell which. Fetching a compass up the field-side, the four of them turned and crept under shelter of the house, and so on tip-toe across the courtyard till the hall-door showed in front of them. The light was clearer here, though they were hidden altogether in the shadows, and they could see a tall fellow piling a last armful on the heap of ling and bracken that already mounted to the doorway-top.

"They mean to fire the house!" muttered Griff, and felt for his brothers in the dark and drew them about him in a narrow ring.

"There were three of them—what has come to the other two?" whispered Rob.

Griff drew in his breath and nipped the other's arm till he all but cried out with pain. "There are three doors to the house, likewise. Dost not see the plan? They have us housed safe as rattens in a gin, they think, and they mean to block up every door with flames. Hush! Yond lean-bodied rogue is turning his head this way."

The man at the door had finished making his heap, and had turned sideways as if listening for some signal. Griff thought that he had heard them, but a second glance showed him that the man's regard was away from their corner—showed him, too, a lean face, cropped level where the right ear should have been. "'Tis the Lean Man himself!" said Griff. "God, why did we leave our swords indoors—we can do naught—saw ye his pistols and his sword-hilt glinting when he turned?"

"We've got our wish, and by the Heart, we'll lilt at the Lean Man, armed or not armed," answered Rob, his voice threatening to rise above a whisper for very gaiety.

A low call sounded from behind the house; a second answered from the side toward the orchard. The Lean Man whipped flint and steel from his pocket, and struck a quick shower of sparks, and on the instant a roaring stream of fire shot upward from the bracken to the ling, and from the ling to the dark pile of peats.

"'Tis done. Fools that we were to raise no cry," groaned Griff.

Time had been hanging heavily meanwhile with Wayne of Cranshaw and his cousin. Shameless Wayne, when he came in from the garden with his step-mother, found Rolf fixed in his resolve to spend the night at Marsh.

"After what chanced to the dogs," he said, "they may strike to-night as well as any other—and strike they mean to, soon or late. There's no need for me at Cranshaw, and one arm the more here is worth something to thee, Ned, as thy numbers go."

"Yes, stay," said Nell, her eyes dancing bright now that danger showed close at hand—"and if they come, we'll give them a brisker welcome than they look for."

"Well, if ye will have it so; but I doubt there'll be no attack to-night," muttered Shameless Wayne. "They move slowly, the Ratcliffes, and strike when ye least expect them.—A pest to those lads. Do they mean to scour the fields till daybreak?—Nell, get to bed, and see that the little bairn is cared for. She's in one of her eerie moods to-night; thou'lt treat her kindly?"

"As far as I can master kindness toward her. Wilt call me, Ned, if—if ye need another arm to fight?"

"Tut, lass! There'll be no fight. Pay no heed to Rolf when he tries to scare thee. There! Good-night. Give the bairn somewhat to stay her fast, for she ate naught at supper."

"What has Mistress Wayne ever done that Ned's first thought should always be for her? Ah, but I hate her still, though God knows I cannot altogether kill my pity," said Nell to herself as she went up the stair in search of her unwelcome charge.

The two men drew close about the fire after Nell had left them. A flagon of wine stood between them, and an open snuff-box; but the wine stayed untasted, and the box was scarce passed from hand to hand as they stared into the fire, each busy with his own thoughts.

"I fear for those lads, curse them. How if I ride down to the low pastures to make sure that naught has happened to them and to bring them home?" said Shameless Wayne, breaking a long silence.

"What, and leave the house? The lads are safe enough, Ned; 'tis thou, not they, the Lean Man aims at, and if he comes, 'twill be to Marsh."

"Art right—yet still I would liefer have them behind stout walls at this late hour."

Again they fell into silence. Both had had a long day, the one on foot, the other in the saddle, and presently Rolf was nodding drowsily. Shameless Wayne, glancing at him, wished that he could follow suit; but each time he dozed for a moment some memory came and stirred him into restlessness. He thought of Barguest creeping close beside him in the garden; he wondered what thread of subtle wit ran through the tangled skein of the mad woman's talk; he remembered what she had said to him of his love for Janet Ratcliffe.

"Take love while thou hast it; why make the world a sourer place than 'tis already?—Was not that what she said to me?" he murmured. "Well, she is fairy-kist, and they say that when such give advice 'tis ever safe to follow it. Christ, if I could but take love tight in both my hands, and laugh at kinship.—Nay, though! Like a deep bog it stands 'twixt her and me; and who shall cross so foul a marsh as that?"

He could not rid himself of the feverish round of thought, till at last Janet's face came and smiled at him from every glooming corner of the hall. He got to his feet, and paced the floor; and once he stopped at the wine-flagon and reached out a hand for it.

"Not again," he said, his arm dropping lifeless to his side. "There's no peace along that road when once—God curse the girl! I have said nay, and will say it to the fiftieth time; why should she haunt me like my own shadow?"

He looked at Rolf, slumbering deep by the hearth; and he laughed sourly to think that one man could sleep while another moved heavy-footed with his troubles across the creaking boards. He sat down again, and watched his cousin listlessly; and little by little his own head dropped forward, and his eyes closed, and Janet and he were wandering, a dream boy and dream girl, up by the grey old kirkstone that kept watch over lovers' vows among the rolling wastes of heath.

He stirred uneasily, and Rolf's voice came vaguely to him from across the hearth. "Get up, Ned! The hall is full of smoke—the flames are whistling up the house-side——"

"Where's the little bairn? She must be looked to. Nell has wit enough to save herself," said Shameless Wayne sleepily.

Wayne of Cranshaw shook him to his feet. "They've fired the door! Get out thy sword, Ned, and step warily."

Ned was full awake by now; and as he rushed to the main door, his thoughts were neither of himself nor Nell, but of the house that had weathered fire and flood and tempest through a half-score generations of Waynes.

"The flames sing from without. There's no fire inside as yet. We can save the old place still," he cried, swinging back the heavy cross-beam that bolted the door.

"Stop, thou fool!" said the other, checking him. "Dost think the trap is not set plain enough, that thou should'st go smoke-blinded on to a Ratcliffe sword-point? We must try the side door leading to the orchard."

But Nell was downstairs by this time, with Mistress Wayne close behind her. "Ned, the kitchen-door's a-blaze, and the orchard door," she gasped—"and see—the oak is beginning to crack yonder, for all its thickness."

Shameless Wayne threw off his cousin's grasp, and drew the staples and turned the cumbrous key. The sweat stood on his forehead, and iron and wood alike were blistering to the touch. He jerked the door wide open, and over the threshold a live, glowing bank of peats fell dumbly on to the floor-boards. He strove to cross into the open, but could not; and athwart the red-blue reek he saw the Lean Man's eyes fixed steadfastly on his.

"God's mercy, this is what Barguest came to tell thee of," said Mistress Wayne, standing ghost-like and strangely undismayed in the lurid light.

"What, thou saw'st him!" cried Nell, her eyes widening with a terror no power of will could stifle. "Ned, keep back! Keep back, I say!— Ah!" as he tried to cross the flames and fell back half-blinded—"thanks to Our Lady that they lit so hot a fire."

The four lads, meanwhile, hidden in their corner of the courtyard, had watched the scene with sick dismay—had heard Ned unbar the door—had seen the Lean Man draw nearer, his bare blade reddened by the fire—had heard him laugh and mutter like a ghoul as he waited till the heat dwindled enough to let Shameless Wayne come through to him. This way and that Griff looked about him, seeking a weapon and finding none, his brain rocking with the thought of all that rested on his shoulders; and then his eyes brightened, and he stepped unheard amid the hissing of the flames, to where the smooth, round stone lay that had lately capped the right pillar of the gateway. A moment more and he was behind the Lean Man; he lifted the stone as high as unformed arms would let him, and hurled it full between Nicholas Ratcliffe's shoulderblades, and dropped him face foremost on to the flaming threshold.

"A Wayne! A Wayne!" he cried, and after him his three brothers took up the ringing call.

The Lean Man put his hand out as he fell, and twisted with a speed incredible till he was free of the flames; and then he scrambled to his feet somehow, and tottered forward.

"On to him, lads," cried Griff, and would have closed with him, but Nicholas rallied, and picked up his fallen sword, and moved backward to the gateway, swinging the steel wide before him. The lads gave back a pace or two, but he dared not stop to pay them for their night's work; his eyes were dimming, and his right hand loosening on the hilt, and he knew that his course was run if Shameless Wayne should cross the threshold before he found a hiding-place. Griff watched him go, his fingers itching all anew for his unfleshed sword; and just as Nicholas staggered through the gate, the two Ratcliffes who had kept ward at the other doors came running round the corner of the house, ready to close with those who had given the cry. "A Wayne, a Wayne!" They found four lads against them, standing unarmed, and straight, and fearless altogether, in the crimson glow.

"Why, what's this?" said Red Ratcliffe, half halting. "Have these sickling babes driven old Nicholas off?"

"Ay," answered Griff, not budging by one backward step; "and would drive you off, too, ye Ratcliffe redheads, if we had any weapon to our hands."

Red Ratcliffe rapped out an oath and made headlong at the lad. And Shameless Wayne, seeing all this from across the gathering flames, leaped wide across the threshold, and landed on the outskirts of the fire, and cut Red Ratcliffe's blade upward in the nick of time. The other Ratcliffe drove in at him, then, and turned his blade in turn, and the fight waxed swift and keen for one half-moment; then Wayne got shrewdly home, and dropped his man close under the house-wall; and Red Ratcliffe, waiting for no second stroke, had turned and flashed through the gateway toward the moor before Wayne had guessed his purpose.

Shameless Wayne made as if to pursue; but the crackling of the flames behind warned him that there must be no delay if Marsh were to be saved.

"To the mistals, lads. Bring buckets and fill them at the well-spring!" he cried.

Griff and others needed no second bidding, but ran with him across the courtyard and pushed open the mistal-doors. The cows were lying quiet in their stalls; the place was fragrant with their breath, and every now and then there sounded a faint rattling through the gloom as one or other fidgetted sleepily on her chain. Shameless Wayne, dark as it was, knew where to lay hands on the feeding-buckets that were stored here in readiness for the coming summer; and soon he and Griff, and the three youngsters, were dashing water over the blazing threshold of the main door as fast as they could cross to the well and back again. Nell, meanwhile, once she had seen her brother safe through the fire and safe through the quick fight that followed, had found heart again.

"Did I not bid you call me if one more arm were needed?" she cried, with a touch of her old spirit. "See, Rolf, the floor is smouldering now, and the panels are starting from the wall. We must get through the kitchen-door and fetch water from the well behind.—What, has the fire roused thee at last, Martha? Come with us—and thou, Mary."

The maids, who had crept down in fearful expectation of what might meet them below-stairs, followed cheerfully when they found no worse enemy than fire to meet. The kitchen-door fell inward as they reached it, but there was little danger on this side, for floor and walls were of stone, and the peats could find no fuel. Wayne of Cranshaw stamped out the embers, and they all ran, a bucket in either hand to the well that stood just outside the door, and thence back to the hall; and while those in the courtyard rained water on the one side of the flames, Wayne of Cranshaw and the women-folk on the other side kept down the smouldering fire that threatened every moment to set the hall ablaze from roof to rafters. For a fierce half-hour they worked, Nell bearing her full share of the toil, until the last angry eye of fire was quenched.

"Begow, if last week's wind hed been fly-be-skying up an' dahn, there'd hev been little left o' Marsh; 'tis a mercy th' neet war so still," said Martha, standing in her wonted easiful attitude and looking through the gaping doorway.

"A mercy, say'st 'a?" snapped Mary, whose eyes were on the spears and swords that lined the walls. "A mercy, when there'll be all yond steel to rub bright again to-morn? Sakes, I wodn't hev thowt th' smoke could hev so streaked an' fouled 'em—an' 'twas only yestreen I scoured 'em, too. Well, let them thank th' Lord as thank can, but for me I'll hod my whisht."

Shameless Wayne was likewise looking at the blackened walls, and Rolf saw that same light in his eyes that had been there when he stood at the vault-edge, and bade them bury alive the fallen Ratcliffes. Nell, too, was watching him, and she, who had never before feared him, knew now that there were deeps and under-deeps in her brother's nature which she had yet to plumb.

"What art thinking, Ned?" she asked, laying a timid hand on his sleeve.

"Thinking?" he said slowly. "I'm thinking that Marsh was all but blotted out—and I am learning how I loved the place. Keep guard awhile here, Rolf. I have an errand that will take me to the moors."

"Lad, thou'rt fay!" cried Wayne of Cranshaw, as his cousin moved toward the door. "Dost mean to seek the Lean Man out?"

Shameless Wayne turned and smiled in curious fashion. "Nay, only to leave a message for him on the road 'twixt this and Wildwater."

"Oh, Ned, I know what 'tis!" cried his sister, with sudden intuition. "For God's sake, dear, leave that to the Ratcliffes; it is not—not seemly to tamper with the dead." She pointed across the black remnants of the peats that strewed the threshold, and shuddered knowing what lay so close against the house-wall there.

Wayne flashed round on her, and the four lads, listening awe-struck from the far-end of the hall, shrank further back to hear the clear bitterness of voice he had.

"All shall be seemly henceforth—all, I say! I'll hunt the Lean Man as he hunts me—ay, and his tokens shall be mine. Hark ye, Nell! We're over soft, we Waynes— Come here, lads," he broke off, beckoning to his brothers.

Griff came and stood before him, the others following slowly. "Yes, Ned?" he asked, breaking a hard silence.

"Ye were fools to stand up to Red Ratcliffe as I saw you do to-night. They would never do the like."

"Was't not well done, then?" said the lad, the corners of his mouth drooping.

Wayne laughed exceeding softly. "Ay, 'twas done as I would have you do it. God rest you, youngsters, and when your turn comes to hold the weapons—strike deep and swift."

He was gone without another word, and Nell looked at Wayne of Cranshaw in search of guidance.

Rolf shook his head. "As well dam Hazel Beck with straws as stop Ned when the black mood is on him," he said.

They heard him stop just outside the door, then clank across the courtyard; and soon the sound of hoof-beats was dying down the chill breeze that rustled from the moors.

Too sick at heart to listen to her cousin's rough words of comfort, Nell wandered up and down the house disconsolately, till at the last her walk brought her to the side-passage leading to the orchard. They had forgotten this third point of attack in their eagerness to save the hall; but here, too, though the door had fallen in, the bare walls and flagged passage had given no hold to the flames, which were burning themselves out harmlessly. Yet the girl went pale as her eyes fell on what the flickering light showed her at the far end of the passage, and she moved forward like one who strives to throw off an evil dream. Crouched above the smouldering wreckage, her hands spread white and slim to the glow, was Mistress Wayne; and she was crooning happily some ballad learned in childhood. She looked up as Nell approached, and smiled, and rubbed her hands gently to and fro across each other.

"Barguest was cold, poor beastie, so he lit a fire to warm himself. Is't not a pretty sight?" she said.

Nell bent to her ear. "What of Ned?" she asked. Her voice was tremulous, beseeching, for she knew that such as these had power to read the future. "What of Ned? Will he come back safe to-night?" she repeated.

"Safe? Why, yes—he's kind to me; how should he come to harm?"

CHAPTER XII

HOW THEY FARED BACK TO WILDWATER

Red Ratcliffe, soon as he had gained the moor, made for the shallow dingle where they had left the horses on their way to Marsh. He found his grandfather standing with one foot in the stirrup, striving vainly to leap to saddle; and he saw that the Lean Man's face was scarred with fire, and his hands red-raw on the reins.

"It has been a hard night for us," said the younger man. The words came dully, with terror unconcealed in them.

Nicholas let his foot trail idly from the stirrup, and stumbled as he faced about; but his eye was hawk-like as ever, and his tone as harsh. "A hard night—ay. There's a long reckoning now 'gainst Shameless Wayne. How comes it that thou rid'st alone?"

"Wayne leaped through the fire and cut Robert down; and I——"

"Fled, I warrant. What, could ye not meet him two to one?"

"There's witchcraft in it," muttered the other sullenly. "Didst see him fight that day in the kirkyard? Well, last night it was the same; he sweeps two blows in for every one of ours, and his steel zags down like lightning before a man's eye can teach his hand to parry. I tell you, some boggart fights for the Waynes of Marsh, and always has done."

The Lean Man nodded quietly. "Ay, is there—for I've seen the boggart.—There, fool, don't stand gaping at me like a farm-hind at a fair! Help me to saddle, for I am—" he paused, and forced a laugh—"I am weary a little with the ride from Wildwater to Marsh. And lead the chestnut by the bridle; we must find him a fresh master, 'twould seem."

Red Ratcliffe helped him up, marvelling to find that Nicholas, who was wont to be active as the best of them, had no spring in his body, no knee-grip when at last his feet were in the stirrups. He stole many a glance at the old man's face as they rode up the moor, and marked a change in it—a palpable change, which he could not understand, but which added a new dread to the heaviness that was already weighing on him.

"Robert is dead, I take it?" said Nicholas, as they passed the square-topped stone that marked one boundary of the Wildwater lands.

"Dead? Ay, for the lad cleft his skull in two clean halves."

Robert was the Lean Man's eldest-born; but if he had any touch of fatherly sorrow for the dead, he would not show it. "'Tis a pity," was all he said; "he had the best hand of all you younger breed.—The miles crawl past, lad, and the thirst of Hell is on me; get thee down and fill thy hat in the stream yonder."

Red Ratcliffe brought the water, and the old man stooped eagerly to it, then glanced behind him on the sudden and stifled a low groan.

"What is't?" cried his grandson. "See, sir, the water's trickling through; there'll be none left unless you drink."

"I—I thought—" stammered Nicholas, and pulled himself together with an effort. "'Twas only a fresh dizziness. There! Fill up again; the water will clear my wits, belike."

He drank greedily, and his knees were firmer on the saddle-flaps when they rode on. "I'll fight the pair of them, God rot them," he mumbled, slipping clumsily to ground as they gained the door of Wildwater.

Janet, hearing them ride under her chamber window, woke from a troubled sleep and ran to open the casement. All day her grandfather had worn the air of grim gaiety which she had learned to fear, and the lateness of his home-coming told her which way his errand had lain.

"They have made a night-attack," she murmured, fumbling blindly with the window-fastening. "And what of Shameless Wayne? If—if aught has chanced to him——"

She wrenched the window open and peered down into the courtyard. The moon, dropping toward the high land that stretched from Wildwater to the four corners of the sky, gave light enough to show her Nicholas and close behind him Red Ratcliffe with the bridle of a riderless horse in his right hand. These were her folk; but the girl's heart leaped at sight of the empty saddle, at the slowness of the Lean Man's movements, for these things told her that defeat had ridden home across the moor with them.

Nicholas, hearing the creak of the casement above, glanced sharply up. "Is't thou, Janet?" he called.

"Ay, grandfather. Have ye—have ye been a-hunting again?"

He fetched a hollow laugh. "Ay, down by Marsh; but the fox slipped cover before we were aware."

She found her courage then, and answered crisply, following the old metaphor. At all hazards she must make them think that her hatred against Wayne of Marsh was equal to their own. "The trickiest fox breaks cover once too oft; ye'll catch him yet," she laughed—"whose saddle goes empty of a rider?"

"Thy Uncle Robert's. Get thee to bed, lass, and use thy woman's trick of prayer."

"To what end shall I use it, sir?" she asked softly. It was easy to play her part of Ratcliffe, now that she knew how things had gone at Marsh.

"Why, to the end of vengeance." The Lean Man's voice rang thin and high with sudden passion. "Pray to the Fiend, girl, or to Our Lady, or to the first that bends an ear to thee—pray that the Waynes——"

He stopped, and Janet saw him shrink as if a shrewd wind had nipped him unawares. And then, without a word, he led his horse across the yard.

Janet still lingered at the casement, watching the moonlight fade away among the grey hollows of the moor. "I will pray," she murmured—"pray that the Waynes may win a rightful quarrel—pray that love may one day conquer kinship, and——"

"Janet!"

She looked down at Red Ratcliffe, standing close to the wall with face upturned to her window. "What is't?" she said coldly.

"Thou know'st as well as I. The times are perilous, and when a man loves he cannot wait.—Listen, Janet! I'm sick with longing for thee."

"The wind blows cold. Canst find no time more fitting for love-idleness?" she said, and shut the casement with a snap.

Red Ratcliffe halted a moment, for the night's work, unmanning him, had loosed his hotter impulses. Panic had held him, and after that dull fear; and now the brute in him rose up.

"Come back, thou wanton!" he cried, so loudly that Nicholas heard him from across the yard.

"Dost think I can wait all night while thou stand'st bleating under a lass's chamber-window?" roared the Lean Man. "Come, fool, and help me stable this nag of mine."

Red Ratcliffe moved away, sullenly, with a bridle in either hand, and found his grandfather leaning heavily against the door-post of the stable.

"Thou'lt have to groom the three of them," said Nicholas, in a failing voice. "That cursed fire has—has tapped my strength a little." He stood upright with a plain effort, and frowned on his grandson, and, "Lad," he said, "what wast saying to Janet just now? I gave thee free leave to win her if thou could'st—but, by the Living Heart, there shall none force her inclination."

"Ay, shall there," muttered the younger man, as he watched Nicholas turn on his heel and falter toward the house. "Red Ratcliffe shall force her inclination, when she hears how much he knows of her meetings with Shameless Wayne; were the Lean Man once to guess, he'd set finger and thumb to Janet's throat, I think, and crush the life out of her, though she's dear as his sword-hand to him.—Peste! How he staggers in the doorway. What if he has got his death-blow down there at Marsh? 'Twill be an ill hour for us when we go leaderless.—The devil's in the wind to-night; it seems to whistle a burial-song," he broke off, gloomily setting himself to rub down the horses.

But the Lean Man, as if bent on refuting his grandson's fears, was down betimes on the morrow. His face and hands were not good to see now that daylight showed each scar on them; but he had regained the most part of his strength, and he ate like one who sees long life before him.

"Where's Janet?" he asked, when breakfast was half through. "Oh, there thou art, child. What ails thee to come down so late, when thou know'st I need thee as a sauce to every meal?"

All through the night her pity had been for those at Marsh;

but now, as her eyes met and shrank from the Lean Man's scars, as she heard the tenderness of voice which none but she could win from him, the girl came and laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder. "I slept all amiss, sir," she said, "through—through troubling for what chanced last night."

"Well, sit thee down, girl, and never trouble thy head again about so small a matter.—Small? Nay!" he cried with his old power of voice as he glanced round the board. "See these scars, lads—don't fear to take a straight look at them. We're loosening our hold on the Wayne-hate, and these should stiffen you. A scar for a scar; and he that kills Shameless Wayne, by trickery or open fight, shall——"

He paused, searching for some reward that should seem great enough and Red Ratcliffe broke suddenly into the talk.

"Shall have Janet there in marriage," he cried.

Nicholas looked hard at him, and then at Janet, and pondered awhile. The girl's face was white, but she kept her trouble bravely from the old man's glance.

"'Tis well for all maids to have an arm about them now," said Nicholas slowly. "And thou hast played contrips long enough, Janet, with these clumsy-wooing cousins of thine.—Well, so be it. Shameless Wayne is more than the roystering lad we thought him, and if any of you can show wit and strength enough to trap him—why, Janet will have made the best choice among you."

"Is that a bargain, sir?" said Red Ratcliffe, stretching his hand across the board.

The Lean Man took his hand and laughed grimly. "A bargain—but I doubt old Nicholas will be the first among you, now as aforetime. What then, Janet? What if I win my own prize? Why, lass, I'll let none wed thee, but thou shalt play the daughter to me to the end."

All laughed at the grim banter, save Janet, sitting white and cold at her grandfather's side. Once she glanced at Red Ratcliffe, who strove hardily to meet her scorn; and then something of the Lean Man's spirit came to her.

"That shall be a bargain, sir," said she, with a low laugh. "If any kills Shameless Wayne, he shall wed me—but by'r Lady, I think the marriage will not be this year, nor next."

Nicholas half minded to rail at her, thought better of it. "'Twill be within the month, or my word goes for naught; but thou dost well, girl, to mock at them. See Red Ratcliffe glowering at thee there; yet last night he dared not look the Master of Marsh between the eyes."

"I'll look any man between the eyes,—but not when a boggart sits upon his shoulder and strikes for him," growled Red Ratcliffe.

The Lean Man shivered, as if the hall were draughtier than its wont, and rose abruptly. "Come, there's a long day's work to be got through," he said.

All was bustle for awhile, until the men had set out on their usual business of farming or of bringing game home for the larder. The women, after they had gone, stayed to chatter of this and that, and then they, too, went about their work—to the spinning-wheel, the dairy or the kitchen. But Janet, who had always lived apart from the common run of life at Wildwater, stood idly at the wide northward window of the hall, and looked out on the greening waste of moor. "Was not the feud bad enough?" she murmured. "Was there too little stood between Shameless Wayne and me, but this must be added to the rest? God's pity, but they could not have struck at me more cruelly, and Red Ratcliffe knew it when he made the bargain. To be wedded to him who kills Shameless Wayne."

She lifted her head suddenly, and it was strange to mark how once again the Lean Man's hardiness showed plainly in her face.

"Nay, but it needs two for any bargain," she cried, and cold steel, even in a maid's hand, can always right a quarrel.

Yet she was full of dread for Shameless Wayne. What chance had he, with the Lean Man's craft and all the strength of Wildwater against him? He would not budge from Marsh, folk said, and he had but four weak lads to help him there. And she could do nothing. Instinctively she looked to the moor for help—the moor, that had been friend and playmate to her through her score years of life. Flat to the cloud-streaked sky it stretched, and the bending heather-tops seemed moving toward her with kindly invitation. Reaching down her cloak from behind the door, she hurried out and turned her back on Wildwater, with its surly stretch of intake, its blackened, frowning gables, its guardian pool. Little by little her step grew firmer; the sky and the wind were close about her, and the fret begotten of house walls slackened with each mile that took her further away from men.

At Marsh there were hills above and sloping fields below; but here the dingle-furrowed flat of bog and peat and heather ended only with the sky—the sky, whose grey and amber cloudlets seemed but an added acreage to the great moor's vastness. Far off the Craven Hills—Sharpas, and Rombald's Moor, and the dark stretch of Rylstone Fell—showed flat as the cloudland and the heath, and the valleys in between were levelled by the mist that filled them up. Only the kirk-stone near at hand, and further the round breast of Bouldsworth Hill, stood naked out of the wilderness, and served, like pigmies at a giant's knee, to show the majesty against which they upreared their littleness. A lark soared mote-like in the middle blue, but his song came frail and reedy through the silence; the noise of many waters rose muffled from their jagged streamways, aping a thousand voices of the Heath-Brown Folk who lived beneath the marshes and the heather. The toil of goblin hammers, working day-long at the gold hid underground was to be heard, the tinkle of the Brown Folk's laughter when they danced, the sobbing fury of their cries as a human foot pressed over-heavily above their peat-roofed dwellings. And sometimes, too, a drear baying came with the wind across the moor, and told that Barguest was speeding on his death-errand.

All this the girl understood, as she did not understand the ways of men and their crabbed round of life. The world-old loneliness, the tragic stillness that was half a sob, were full of intimate speech for her; when the storm-winds whistled, they piped a welcome measure; there was no hour of dark or day out here on the heath that showed her aught but homelike linkliness. The little people of the moor she knew, too, as she knew her own face reflected in a wayside pool—the plump-bodied spiders, the starveling moor-tits, the haunt of snipe and curlew, eagle and hawk and moor-fowl. Scarce a day passed but she read some well-thumbed page of this Book of Life, till now she had learned by heart the two lessons which the wide hill-spaces teach their children—superstition and a rare singleness of passion. The Ratcliffe men-folk lusted after the feud, and their hate was single-minded; Janet, with a man's vigour in her blood and only a maid's way of outlet, had never learned of sun or wind or tempest, that the plain force of passion was created only to be checked. Shame, and halting by the way, were her woman's birthright; but these had lacked a foster-mother, and the resistless teaching of the solitude had made her love for Wayne of Marsh a swift, and terrible, and god-like thing.

Yet her clear outlook upon life had been dulled of late. The moor had still the same unalterable counsel for her, but at Wildwater there had been such constant talk of feud, such a quiet surety on the Lean Man's part that no Ratcliffe could ever stoop to friendship with a Wayne, that insensibly the girl had faltered a little in her purpose. Had Shameless Wayne been of her mind, she would have cared naught for what her folk said; but he, too, had been against her, and, while he angered and perplexed her, he forced her to believe that the blood spilt between the houses would leave its stain forever.

But that was changed now: the bargain made by the Lean Man that morning had killed, once for all, the narrower love of kin; the danger that was coming so near to Wayne of Marsh made her free to be as she would with him—for with it all she knew that, spite of Wayne's would-be coldness, his heart was very surely hers.

She moved to the kirk-stone, and lifted her hands against its weather-wrinkled face, and bared her heart to this living bulk of stone which had learned, century in and century out, the changeless fashion of men's impulses. She had no wild passion now for Shameless Wayne; that was subdued by a fierce and over-mastering mother-love—a love that saw his danger and yearned to snatch him from it at any cost, a love that knew neither pride nor shade of doubt.

"Thank God, I have no father to Wildwater, nor brother," she murmured, "for I would have taken against them, too, for his sake.—They are so sure of me, grandfather, and Red Ratcliffe, and all of them; I will trick them to tell me all their plans; and each time they come back with empty saddles I will be glad." Her voice deepened. "Ay, I will be glad!" she cried.

Little by little her heaviness slipped off from her. It had been hard to wait idly, expecting each hour to bring her news of Wayne's discomfiture; but now there was work for her to do, and she would strive at every turn to cross her kinsfolk's plans. With a lighter heart than she had known for many a day, she took her farewell of the kirk-stone and swung out across the moor until she reached the lane, soft now with budding thorn-bushes, which led past Wynyates.

And all the way her mind was busy with the long debt that Marsh House owed to Wildwater. The Ratcliffes had been first to strike; they had used treachery, when the Waynes scomed guile of any sort; they were bringing all their heavy weight of odds to bear against this solitary foe who would not move a hair's-breadth from their path. Well, she must use guile, since Wayne of Marsh would not, and she would save him in his own despite.

"I am no Ratcliffe," she cried, turning into the Wildwater bridle track. "I am a Wayne, with less wilful pride than they, and twice their wit to get them out of danger."

The stone which bounded the Ratcliffe lands on the side toward Ling Crag stood on the right hand of her road. Her eyes fell on it absently, and she would have passed it by, but something lying on it caught her glance—something that showed white against the rain-soaked blackness of the stone. She drew near, and for a moment sickened, for the man's hand that lay there was meant for hardier eyes than hers.

Awed she was, but curious too, as she drew near to the stone, wondering what this token, which her grandfather had often told her of, was doing here on the Wildwater land. And then she saw that beside the hand five words were scrawled untidily in chalk. "From Wayne to Ratcliffe—greeting," ran the message.

Janet, bewildered, read and re-read the words, and then their meaning flashed across her mind. Last night they had attacked Shameless Wayne, and he had routed them; and afterward he had cut off the right hand of him whose horse had come back riderless to Wildwater, and had answered the Lean Man after his own fashion. A dauntlessness there was about the message, a disregard of odds, that suited the girl's temper.

"I need not fear for Wayne of Marsh," she said, her eyes brightening. "If he means to hunt the hunters—why, Our Lady fights for all such gallant fools—Yet, shall I leave it there?"

She eyed the token doubtfully and seemed minded to remove it, lest the Lean Man's hate should be fanned to a hotter flame. But something checked her—a touch of Wayne's own recklessness, perhaps, and her new-found faith that victory would be with him in the long run. She turned about, leaving the hand there under the naked sky, and made for home. Almost eager she was to reach Wildwater; she was returning now, not to kinsmen whose battles were her own, but to foes—Waynes' foes and hers—who would tell her the last detail of their plots.

A half-mile nearer Wildwater she chanced on Red Ratcliffe, striding through the heather with a merlin hawk on his wrist, and a brace of hares slung by a leathern thong about his shoulders.

"I've sought thee all the morning," he said, standing across her path.

His face was lowering, and she saw that there was mischief in it. "Hadst better seek hares, and conies, and the like," she answered, pointing to his spoil. "That swells the larder—but, well-away, what use is there in seeking one who's tired of mocking thee?"

"Because there's a touchstone, cousin, that turns mockery to something kindlier."

"To love, thou mean'st?" she laughed disdainfully. "Come to me in a likelier hour, Red Ratcliffe. Shall I love thee more because thou didst run away last night? Shall I be sorry for thee, taking the poor excuse thou gavest for thy cowardice. Thou said'st amiss this morning—the boggart sits, not on Wayne's shoulder, but on thine; and his name is panic."