"Hast lived so long with the storms, Janet," said he, smiling gravely, "that thou hast learnt naught of Fate? What will be, will be, girl, and if I’m to die by a Ratcliffe blade in three days’ time—why, ’tis settled; if not, thy warning still goes for naught." Stung by his disdain, she ceased pleading, and allowed her own right pride to have its say. "So be it; but I would have thee know this before I leave thee. There’s somewhat hangs on the taking of thy life—somewhat that touches my welfare nearly." "What is’t?" he asked, eyeing her curiously. "’Twould not advantage thee to know.—And so farewell, Ned, and God give thee a better wit." Shameless Wayne had no struggle now with his love for this slim, passionate girl; with the first hint of battle his mind had swung back to what had been all in all to him since he swore above his father’s body never to rest until the Ratcliffes had paid their price. She was a Ratcliffe, and she had dared to bid him slink out of touch of danger; and the good-bye that had seemed agony not long ago, was easy now, as he watched her go up the brink-field without a thought to call her back for one last hopeless word—the word for lack of which her step went heavy up the slope. "I can do naught for him," she murmured, not turning as she topped the rise. "Is there one other as fond as he in the whole world, to see a plain pitfall and ride hot-foot over it?" She cared not a whit for what the Lean Man might have in store for her. She would make a straight confession to him and thereafter face him without dread—nay, with a sort of gladness, since his first hot impulse might earn her a release from that terrible bargain which had pledged her to the slayer of Wayne of Marsh. Then she fell into a storm of anger against Wayne, that his stubbornness had forbidden him to save himself and her; and after that a sense of utter loneliness came over her, and she lay down in the heather and sobbed without restraint. But neither tears nor anger stayed with her for long, and her courage came slowly back after she had picked up her basket again and turned her face to Wildwater. Wayne of Marsh showed helpless as a child, and the old instinct to protect him gained on her. His strength of arm was nothing unless he had some friend to match the guile against which his uprightness was powerless. What could she do? Her thoughts ran quickly now. She was full of feints as the peewits that had lately tried to decoy her from their nests. For her own sake she would have been glad to let the Lean Man know all; but there was Ned to think of, and by some means she must hide the truth. Her eyes brightened on the sudden, and she moved with a brisker step.