The old slyness of his race was with Ratcliffe still; he made a feint of withdrawing altogether from the stone, then leaped at Wayne with a mighty cry. But Wayne was ready for the stroke, and he warded off the down-sweeping blade which bade fair to split his skull in two; his adversary reeled backward, driven by the return force of his own wild blow, and Rolf had but to strike where it pleased him to settle the issue once and for all. But Wayne of Cranshaw misliked cold butchery, and Ratcliffe’s debt was over-heavy to allow of such prompt settlement. He waited, point to ground, until the other had gained his balance; and then he made at him; and the fight waxed grim and hot. The wind sank low to a murmur; the vaultstone, shining wet, reflected their every movement, of body and of bared right arm. There was none of the nicety of fence; parry and cut it was, cut and parry, till the light danced off like water from their blades, till the women’s ears were tingling with the music of live steel. And all the while the minute bell kept thundering its message across the kirkyard and over the rolling moor above; it rang for Wayne of Marsh, and it hovered between the sword-cuts that were to settle whether Wayne of Cranshaw gave his kinsman a peaceful shroud. Wayne’s wife was all a-tremble, like a foolish aspen tree; now this she murmured, and now that, until she was like to kill her lover, woman’s fashion, by sheer interference of her tongue. But Wayne’s daughter stood with a face of scorn, saying no word, making no motion—watching, always watching, with certainty that Rolf would end the struggle soon. At another time she would have feared for Rolf; but to-night was the dead man’s, and she was deaf to love or fear or pity. Nay, the very justice of the cause seemed to have determined the issue before the fight began. "Ah, ’tis sweet, ’tis sweet!" whispered the girl, and caught her breath as Wayne’s sword-edge sliced a crimson pathway down the other’s cheek. Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had finished his spell of drinking at the tavern just below. His step was unsteady and his eyes red-ripe with liquor as he moved down the passage with intent to cross the moor to Marsh. Jonas Feather, the host, came out of his kitchen on hearing the lad’s step, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Mun I saddle your mare, Maister Wayne?" he said. "God, I’d clean forgotten the mare!" laughed Shameless Wayne. "Did I ride hither, Jonas the fool? Well, then I’ll not ride home again; rot me if I don’t cross the moor afoot, to steady me. There’s no horse like a man’s own legs, when the world spins round and round him." "Best bide here, an’ wend home to-morn—ay, ye’d best bide here," said Jonas, with a line of perplexity across his big red forehead. "What, to swell thy bill? Go to, thou crafty rogue—they’ll be naming thee kin to the Ratcliffes of Wildwater soon, if thou goest playing fox-tricks with thy neighbours."