Turning, she ran up the path, and out at the wicket, and tugged at her horse’s bridle, which she had fastened to the gate-post, so hard that it broke between her hands. And fast as they galloped across the moor, toward Bents Farm, the pace seemed sluggish when measured by her thoughts. Was it too late? Was Wayne already lying face to sky, with lids close-shut over the eyes that would see neither sky nor moor again? Nay, it should not be, it must not be. _Gallop_. She would ride into the thick of them, and somehow pluck him from between their blades; they dared not strike a woman, one of their own kin, and while she held them off Wayne might compass his escape. Yet she knew it was too late, and again the picture came before her, clear in its every detail, of the quiet body and the upturned face that would be lying somewhere on this same road to Bents. Each turn of the way was a hell to her, because of what might lie beyond, each turning safely past was heaven. _Gallop_. There was yet time. She neared the dip of Hoylus Slack and heard the sound of hoof-beats in the hollow. It was done, then; the strain was over, and there was no room for hope. Was this Red Ratcliffe, come to bear news to Marsh that its Master was dead? If so, she would gallop her horse against his, and snatch for his weapon as they fell together. The horseman was half up the hill now, and a great cry broke from her as she saw the blunt, rugged face with the kerchief tied across the brow. Pulling her beast back almost on to his haunches, she stood and waited till the horseman topped the rise and came to a sudden halt at sight of her. "Ned, Ned, art safe?" she cried, reining in close beside him. Wayne of Marsh eyed her soberly. "Safe? Ay. Wilt sorrow or be glad of it, Mistress Janet?" "Cease mockery!" she pleaded. "See, I would think shame to confess it at another time, but all the way from Marshcotes I have sickened at thought of—God’s pity, Ned, what might have chanced!" "Well, enough has chanced, I fancy, for one morning’s work. If a ripped forehead, that scarce will let me see for bleeding through the kerchief——" "Stoop, Ned. Thou hast tied it ill, and my fingers are better at the work." She was glad of the least labour she could do for him; he might be churlish, he might accept her service as if it were a penance, but he was safe, and free to treat her as he would. Shrinking a little when the bandage was loosened, she glanced at the wound and noted its discoloured look. "Bide awhile," she said, slipping to the ground. "Thou’lt have trouble with it, Ned, unless I lay fresh peat on it to drive out the bad humours." "’Twill heal of itself; I would not trouble thee," he muttered. It was a nice, bewildering point of honour to Wayne of Marsh, this acceptance of aid from Ratcliffe hands, and he spoke with scant civility.