"I come in a late hour, lass," he answered, still in the same deep voice that was older than his years; "and they will noise it up and down that Wayne’s son of Marsh sat drinking with clowns in a wayside tavern while another robbed him of the feud. Well, the long years lie behind, and neither thou nor I can better them." A shaft of pity touched the girl. "I loved thee once, Ned—why could’st not—nay, ’tis behind thee, as thou say’st, and—and thou’lt never be aught but Shameless Wayne henceforth." The frail woman looked up from handling her lover’s body, and there was witless curiosity in her face. "Who is’t stands there, and who has robbed him?" she asked. Then with a little laugh, "Why, ’tis Ned—to think I should not know my own step-son.—Ned, come hither! Your sister is cruel, and she has well-nigh killed me with those slender hands of hers—but you will be kinder, Ned, and I want you to staunch the bleeding—see how the vault-stone reddens—hurry, dear, for if the blood once drips into the vault, the stain can never be washed out—never, never be washed out." "You are right, Mistress," said Shameless Wayne, smiling queerly at her from across the stone. "Though one kills every other Ratcliffe that fouls the air, the stain will never be washed clean." Wayne of Cranshaw put a kindly hand on him. "Take heart, lad," he muttered. "The next blow shall be thine, and the next after that—and there’s no man in Marshcotes or Ling Crag that dares call thee coward." "But all may name me fool," finished the lad quietly;—"Take Nell home, Rolf. She’ll suffer thy company better than mine just now." But Nell was strung to the storm’s pitch still. "’Tis not done yet!" she cried. "I thought that one life would pay—and what is Dick Ratcliffe now? Is that thankless lump of clay to square the reckoning, dross for gold? Nay, there is more to be done. Listen, Rolf! We will send round the feud-call, and rouse our kinsfolk." "Ay, will we—but not to-night, dear lass." "To-night! Rolf! It must be to-night. No quarter said father with his last breath, and God forgive me if I rest before the whole tale is told." "Nay! ’Tis home and a quiet pillow for thee. Come, Nell! Thou know’st thy strength will scarce carry thee to Marsh." Still she refused, though she was shivering as with ague. "No quarter. Wilt not swear it, Rolf?" "I swear it here, Nell, by any vow that binds a man—and by the same token I swear to carry thee to-night by force to Marsh, if so thou wilt not come of thy own free will. Are the Ratcliffes salt-and-snow, that they should melt away before the dawn?" "Wilt not help me, Ned?" broke in Mistress Wayne. Her baby-voice was soft and pleading as she turned to her step-son. "The stain is spreading—I dare not let it run to the edge—there is a little crack down one side of the stone, and the blood will never be wiped off if once it drips on to the vault-floor."