"Not that, Ned," she cried. "Is it a fit hour for—for softness?—And see, thou’rt wounded, Ned—and I’ve had no time to tell thee——" A dozen feints of speech she would have tried to keep him at arm’s-length, but Wayne would none of them. "There’s one wound, lass, of thy own giving, that matters more than all the rest," he said. "Hush! I’ll not listen. There’s work to be done—’twill not wait—it is no fit hour, I tell thee." The last flush of gloaming stained the dark oak walls, the spears and trophies of the chase that hung on them; it lighted, too, the girl’s straight figure and bent head, as she shrank against the window—shrank from Wayne, and from the knowledge that her will was broken once for all. Ay, she was conquered, she who had lived her own life heretofore; what if she could hide it from him? Was it too late to escape into the free wilderness where she was mistress of her thoughts and secrets? It had been easy once, when they had met, boy and girl, to pass light love-vows at the kirk-stone; but this was giving all to him, and her pride rebelled, ashamed of its own powerlessness. But Wayne was not to be held in check. He wooed like a storm-wind, and like a reed she bent to him. "It is a fit hour," he cried—"and what is to be done will wait, child, till thou hast told me—" He stopped, and lifted her face till she was forced to meet his glance. "Told thee what, Ned?" she asked, not knowing whether her unwillingness were real or feigned. "That thou’rt mine altogether—that thy thoughts are mine, and thy body, and thy pride—ay, that I’ve mastered thee." Wayne kept her face tight prisoned. She could feel his touch gain fierceness; his voice had a note in it not to be gainsaid. "Ned, I will not say it—will not—" she faltered. And then on the sudden she put both arms about his neck, and laid her face to his, and, "Thou art my master—my master, God be thanked," she whispered. The good-nights of birds came sleepily from the dim garden; there was a stir of laggard bees among the flowers; and pride of summer reigned for its little spell with these storm-driven children of the moor. And frail Mistress Wayne, who had watched, mute and unheeded, from the shadows that seemed scarce more unsubstantial than herself, went out and left them to it. So for a space; and then a new sound was born of this restless, haunted night. Far off from Barguest Lane there came a shouting of gruff voices, and the sparrows in the eaves awoke to chirp a fitful protest. Janet turned in Ned’s arms and glanced toward the door. "What is’t, Ned?" she whispered. "The Waynes are here," he cried—"and I’ll take a lighter heart to Wildwater, Janet, for knowing——" "But, Ned, thou didst promise not to go," she cried. "Ay, but I’ve learned that from thee which makes me doubly set on going. Dost think I could let thee return now to the Lean Man’s care?" "Yes, yes! I tell thee, there’s no danger but what I have faced before, and can meet again."