Ratcliffe of Wildwater, meanwhile, maddened by the swordcut that had slit his cheek, made a sudden onslaught on his foe; and Rolf escaped the blade by a bare half-inch; and Ratcliffe stumbled once again, pressed by his own idle blow. Mistress Wayne sprang forward, eager to save the craven who had snared her fancy; but Nell gripped her by the arms, and forced her back, and whispered, "Strike!" But neither of the women had leisure to mark that a loose-limbed lad, with a face as old as sorrow, and a hand that played never-restingly with his sword hilt, had swelled the number of those who watched the fight. Twice Shameless Wayne made as if to join the fray, and twice he held back, while Ratcliffe recovered in the nick of time and warded desperately—while Rolf’s blade pried in and out, seeking a place to strike. "Oh God, that I could claim the right!" muttered the lad, half drawing his sword again. "Nell, save him! Your lover will listen to you—the night wears late and dreary—we want to reach Saxilton," pleaded Mistress Wayne. Not a word spoke the girl. Not a word spoke the wind, shuddering into the corners of the graveyard for dread. But the laboured breathing of the men sounded loud as a cry almost in the quiet place. Ratcliffe, for all his coward’s heart, was a cunning swordsman enough when need compelled, and now, his first panic lost, he was settling to a steadier effort. "Remember!" cried the girl, as she saw her cousin give back a pace. Wayne of Cranshaw regained his lost ground, and swung his blade up to the blue-black sky; there was a rough jag of steel, the clatter of a sword on the hollow vault-stone, a groan from Ratcliffe of Wildwater? "Save him, Nell!" wailed Mistress Wayne, like a child repeating a lesson learned by rote. "Save him? See—see—he strikes—drive home, Rolf!—A brave stroke!" Wayne of Marsh was righted now, and his kinsman wiped his blade at leisure on his coat-sleeve. Nell came to him and drew down his rough head and kissed him on the mouth; the little wisp of a woman knelt by her lover’s side, and tried to stop the blood with a dainty cambric kerchief, and talked to Ratcliffe of Wildwater as if her word were greater than God’s own, to bring a dead man back to life. A deep voice broke in upon them. "Remember was the word thou said’st, Nell," cried Shameless Wayne. "Christ knows there will be no forgetfulness for me." Nell Wayne looked at her brother for awhile, not knowing what her thoughts were toward him. And then she shrank from him with plain disgust. Up in the belfry yonder she had pleaded excuses for Shameless Wayne when another talked his good name away; but she had no pity for him now. "Thou com’st in a late hour, Ned," she said coldly.