The Lean Man made a few steps forward, then stopped and seemed to stumble. "Give me thy hand, Wayne, as far as Wildwater gates. I am weak, and cannot walk alone," he mumbled. "There shall none of my folk do thee hurt—I swear it by the Mass." Wayne saw through the trick, for he knew from those few forward steps that, though his enemy’s sword-arm was sapless as a rotten twig, his legs were firm to carry him. A touch of grim approval crossed his hate. This Lean Man had a grandeur of his own; maimed, defeated, worn with the fiercest battle he had ever fought in his long life of combat, he could yet keep heart to the last and frame a quick stroke of guile when all weapons else had failed him. "Featly attempted!" cried Wayne of Marsh. "How your folk would swarm about me when you got me to the gates! And in what strange fashion they would keep me safe from hurt. Nay, Lean Man, I know the way the hair curls on the Ratcliffe breed of hound." The old man was silent, weaving a hundred useless subtleties. And then an exceeding bitter cry escaped him. "God curse thee, youngster! The Dog fights for thee—my very children fight for thee—and now the sky opens to snatch thee out of hurt." "Nay," answered Wayne, gravely, "for the blow was mine, and you know it." And so they parted. And the storm howled ravening over the tortured waste. *CHAPTER XXV* *AND HOW HE DRANK WITH HIM* It was the morrow of Wayne’s fight with Ratcliffe of Wildwater, and he rode with his sister to her wedding. The past day’s storm was over, but the clouds hung grey and lowering, spent with the battle, yet waiting to rally by and by for a fresh outburst. The day was scowling on the bride, folk said, and Nell herself would fain have seen one gleam at least of fair-omened sunlight. "Well, lass, I have brought thee a wedding-gift of the choicest," said Wayne, as they neared Marshcotes village. "And what is that, Ned?" Her voice was cold, for she would not forget how Janet Ratcliffe had supplanted her, had driven her into wedlock before she wished for it. "What is it? Why, the knowledge that the Lean Man has fought his last. I would not tell before, seeing thee so busy with thy bridal-wear—but yestereven we met on Ling Crag Moor, he and I, and fought it out." The light came back to her eyes. "Didst kill him?" she asked eagerly. "Nay, for the storm robbed me. I had him, Nell, and just was striking when the lightning snatched my blow." "’Tis well, Ned. I had liefer thou hadst given the blow—but he is dead, and I’ll take that thought to warm me through my bridal." Wayne eyed her wonderingly, for he had looked for greater softness at such a time. "He is not dead, lass; his sword arm was crumpled—but for the rest, he could make shift to get him home." "Thou—didst—let him go?" Nell had come to a sudden halt, and her voice was low and passionate.