He glanced at the moonlight streaming through the latticed windows, and thought of how Janet had lain there in his arms while they snatched a moment’s grace from feud. Then, restless still, he crossed to the garden-door, from over which the roses were dropping white petals in the lap of a slow-stirring breeze. It was here that Janet had stood with the moon-softness in her eyes and had tempted him to sell his honour. He pictured her going up to the moor—up and further up—nearer to the red folk of Wildwater; and the strength which had saved his pride seemed wildest folly now. Through the garden he went, now harking back to what had passed, now fancying new perils that might be lying in wait for Janet. The kitchen door was open as he drew near; through it he could see the rushlights flickering on the faces of the shepherds as they ate with greedy relish or lifted brimming pewters to their frothy lips. At another time there would have been song and jest; shepherd Jose would have been to the fore with tales of yesteryear; the women would have laughed more loudly and kept sharper tongues for over-pressing swains. But to-night their merriment was soured by what had gone before it; and, though the Mistress had come back safe to Marsh, they could not forget how nearly she had been dishonoured. At another time, too, Wayne would have gone amongst them to drink his due measure of October and set the glees a-going; but his heart was not in it, and he held aloof. Leaning idly against the garden-wall, he watched them at their meat, and let their talk drift past him while he asked himself, again and again, what end they would find, Janet and he, to their wind-wild wooing. Now and then he pushed the matter from him and turned, for lack of better company, to listen to the gossip of his farm-folk. He heard each detail of the morning’s fight described, repeated, and described again, till he wearied of it and half turned to go indoors again. Yet still he dallied. "Wheer’s th’ Maister, like? I could right weel like to set een on him," said Jose the shepherd, breaking a long silence. "Ay, a feast’s no feast at all without th’ Maister comes to drink his share," cried one of the younger men.—"What, Hiram, mun I pass thee th’ jug again? For one that’s no drinker tha frames as weel as iver I see’d a man." Hiram filled his pewter and all but emptied it before he spoke. "He’ll noan show hisseln this side o’ th’ door to-neet, willun’t th’ Maister," he said slowly. "He’s getten summat softer to think on nor sich poor folk as ye an’ me." Wayne flushed under the moonlight and muttered a low oath; but he would not move away, for the whim took him to hear the worst these yokels had to say. "Oh, ay?" put in one of the wenches. "What dost mean, Hiram? Tha’rt allus so darksome i’ thy speech."