"Begow, that’s a let-off, an’ proper," said Hiram Hey, scarce comprehending yet that he was safe. For a moment a silence as of night held the Ratcliffes, while they watched the four Wayne lads charge gaily up the slope, plucking their swords free of the scabbard as they rode. "On to them; they’ll break at the first onset," muttered Red Ratcliffe, and galloped down to meet them. For the first time Shameless Wayne’s heart grew soft and his nerve weak. They were over young, these lads who had been left to his care, to fight with grown men; what if one of them were slain in saving the life he had gladly given up a while since? But that passed; breathing again, he felt new strength in his arm, and as he crashed headlong in at the rear of the down-sweeping band, he swore that this thing should not be. "Wayne and the Dog!" cried Griff, as he made at the foremost Ratcliffe. "Wayne and the Dog!" roared Ned from the rear, and cleft the nearest Ratcliffe through the skull. And even as he wrenched his blade free, he laughed to mark with what elderly and sober glee these youngsters waged their maiden battle. Front and rear the Ratcliffes were taken. Confused, hard pressed on every side, their blows grew wilder and more flurried. But still they held to it, and Wayne’s four brothers had cause to thank the hard, monotonous hours they had spent in learning tricks of fence. All was changed on the sudden. There had been quick breathing of striving swordsmen, and quiet, deep breaths of silent watchers—a quiet which Hiram Hey’s conflict at the far side of the pinfold had scarce ruffled. But now it seemed as if Bedlam had let loose a second strife of tongues. The farm-men, maddened by the sight of blows, ran in at one another and fought for Wildwater or for Marsh. The dogs played Merry-Andrew with the sheep, and scattered them wide across the moor, and still pursued them. Cries of men, bleating of bewildered ewes, wild barking of dogs a-holydaying—and then, clear above all, Griff’s shrill cry, "They flee, they free!"—and after that three flying horsemen steering a zig-zag course through sheep and dogs and wrestling farm-folk. And over all was the splendour of the mid-day sun, the wind among the ling, the deep, unalterable silence that lies forever at the moor’s heart, whether men live or die, whether they fight or drink in peace together. Only the plover heeded the swift fight, and screamed their plaudits to the victors. *CHAPTER XX* *HOW THEY WAITED AT THE BOUNDARY-STONE* Red Ratcliffe, and the two who had come through the fight with him, checked their headlong gallop when at last the pursuit died far in their wake. Their shoulders were bunched forward, their heads downcast; and not till the surly pile of Wildwater showed half a league from them across the moor did they break silence. "There’ll be a queer welcome for us from the Lean Man," said one.