Janet found the Lean Man half-sitting, half-lying on the lang-settle, his eyes closed, his head resting in the hollow of one arm. She came and leant over the high back of the settle, and watched him with infinite sadness in her eyes. She knew the meaning of these spells of daytime sleep which were more akin to stupors than to healthy slumber; he had passed a night of terror, wrestling hour by hour with the Brown Dog of Marsh, and now weariness had followed, giving him uneasy dreams in place of fevered wakefulness. "The Dog—flames of the Pit, he holds me—beat him off, there! Cannot ye see I’m helpless—beat him off, I say—his teeth are in my throat," muttered Nicholas, with closed eyes and tight-clenched lips. "Grandfather, would I could cleave to you, in loyalty as in love," whispered the girl, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "What can I do, sir?" she went on hurriedly, as if he were awake to hear her. "I loathe myself for going—I should loathe myself if I stayed. Cannot I save Wayne without wronging you? See, sir, you’ll gain nothing by his death—bid me go and snatch him from these red folk who are not worthy to be kin to you." "Wayne will win free—_must_ win free—there’s naught can pierce that armour," said the Lean Man, stirring in his sleep again. The girl’s face brightened. This chance repetition of the thought that ever lay uppermost in the old man’s mind was no chance to her, but an omen. "Wayne must win free," she echoed, changing the whole meaning of the words by a skilful turn of voice. "Wayne must win free. He has said it, and I will obey." Crossing the noisy boards on tip-toe, she opened the main-door, sped through it, and was lost amid the flaming sunset glory of the heath. "Lost, all lost. God of the lightning and the storm, will you not strike Wayne dead for me?" cried the Lean Man, and woke, and gazed about him wonderingly. *CHAPTER XXII* *AND WHAT CHANCED AT MARSH* All afternoon the Marsh farm-hands had laboured at the sheep-washing, after their brisk skirmish with the Ratcliffes. There had been but one break in the work, and that was when Shameless Wayne and all his folk crossed to the nearest farm to stay their hunger. Nor would Wayne leave them afterward, though there was little need of him once the work had started again in good earnest. It pleased his mood to share and share alike, despite his wounds, with the unwilling labour he had forced from them; and the sun was going down redly and the rushes whispering their evening dirge when he set off for Marsh. "Mind that ye bring the Ratcliffe sheep with you; I’d not lose them for the world," he said at parting, and rode light-hearted down the slope, the lads beside him, with a thought that home and a full meal and the sight of women’s faces would be passing good.