"We were over-happy just now, girl; fate grudges that. Thou shalt not go, I say." "There! I knew ’twas folly to name thee _master_. Hark how thou usest the whip at the first chance! Is every wish of mine to be thwarted now, to prove thy sovereignty?" "Nay, for it’s sure. But when I hear thee ask to fight my battles——" "Whose else should I fight, dear lad?" she broke in, with pretty wilfulness. "See, ’tis the first thing I’ve asked of thee, and I will not take denial. Ride to Wildwater, thou and thy friends, and ye place Nell in peril, as I told thee. Send word that I am here, and she will be brought safely down to Marsh. Ned, try the plan at least! And if it fails, I’ll let thee——" "But what of Nell meanwhile? Each moment lost——" "I left her my own dagger, and she has given proof already that she can use it. But there’s no fear for her, unless ye drive my folk to bay." The noise without grew louder, and Wayne moved slowly to the door. How could he let Janet go? Yet how could he place Nell in greater jeopardy than need be? It was a hard knot to unravel, but the dogged self-denial of the past months stood him in good stead now. "Thou shalt go," he said, and went out into the courtyard, wondering how best to send a message up to Wildwater. The Waynes had not come yet, however. The shouting he had heard was from the farm-hands, returning in gay spirits to the supper he had promised them. But their jollity had met with a sudden check. The moon was rising over Worm’s Hill, and by its light the men were stealing awed glances at the Ratcliffe whom Wayne of Cranshaw had left lying by the gate. "Nay, begow!" Hiram Hey was saying. "If this doan’t beat all. First we mun sheep-wesh; then we mun fight; an’ at after that we mun wesh an’ wesh till our bodies is squeezed dry o’ sweat. An’ then, just as we think all’s done, th’ Maister mun needs go killing fair on th’ Marsh door-stuns. We’ll hev to whistle for yond supper, lads, ye mark my words." "Not for long, Hiram," said Wayne lightly. He was anxious to keep Nell’s capture secret from all these chattering folk as long as might be. Hiram, no whit abashed to find the Master standing so unexpectedly at his elbow, thrust his hands still deeper into his pockets. "Well, I’m hoping not," he said, in his slow way; "for I’m that droughty I scarce know how to bide. Wark’s wark, Maister, I’ve hed as mich fighting as iver I can thoyle i’ th’ one day." "Get to the kitchen, all of you, and tell the maids I sent you," cried the Maister, disregarding Hiram’s snarls. "An’ th’ ale, Maister? October, ye said, if I call to mind—there’s no weaker-bodied ale could fill th’ hoil I’ve getten i’ my innards." "Broach a fresh barrel, then," snapped Wayne, "and put thy mouth to the bung-hole if it pleases thee."