"To Janet Ratcliffe, who rules at Marsh and Wildwater," said Nicholas, and drained the cup. Shameless Wayne leaned against the wall and passed a hand across his eyes. It was more like some fantastic dream-scene, this, than aught else. Had Nicholas, then, learned all that had passed between Janet and himself? Nay, that could not be, since he took it with such friendliness. The riddle was beyond him, and he looked up at last—to find the Lean Man smiling frankly at him. "There, lad! It puzzles thee, and I’ll make no mystery of it. Janet grew shamed of lying to me, and made a straight confession." "After—after we fought together, sir?" The other halted a moment; then, "After we fought together," he echoed.—"See, Wayne of Marsh, I’m humbled—by you. I have been scarred by fire and lightning—through you. I despised you when first the feud broke out, thinking you a worthless lad, scarce meet to cross blades with me. Yet you have prevailed; you have made shame my portion——" "Hold, sir! What is past, is past, and I will not hearken." "I have cursed you, lad, till, by my life, I think there are no curses left in me. Weakness has stepped in everywhere, and even my hate is lost." There was no shiftiness about the Lean Man now. His eye met Wayne’s with shame in it, but with no trace of guile. And the younger man despised himself that at such a time a doubt should take him unawares. "Yet ’tis not long since you carried my sister off by deep-laid treachery—ay, and boasted of it when you brought her in exchange for Janet," he said slowly. "My body was whole then, and my heart hot; and for devilry I lied to you. ’Twas not I, but Red Ratcliffe, who hatched the stratagem.—Lad, lad, if you could read me through, you’d see I’m over broken to lie, or scheme, or fight again." His eyes dimmed, and he bent his scarred face on his breast awhile. Wayne felt his doubts slip by. Like a dream it was still, but a truer dream than Mistress Wayne’s. Only an hour ago she had talked of disaster and bloodshed; and here was the Lean Man, come to give her prophecies the lie. And Nicholas could give him Janet, and peaceful days wherein she and he might watch the old sores heal. The Lean Man roused himself presently, and tried to smile. "I lack it, Wayne, that hate of mine, when all’s said; but ’tis gone, lad—gone altogether." "As mine is, too," said Wayne in a low voice. "Is that a true word?" cried the other. "Is’t courtesy only bids you say it, or——" "As I live, I have lost my hate for you. Ay, I could welcome peace if it were offered." "That is the Wayne spirit, lad—the damned Wayne pity when theirs is the upper hand. Have you no fear of what chanced to your folk aforetime through letting us breed instead of killing us?" Wayne warmed to the downright sturdiness of the man. "I must leave that to shape itself," he answered.—"But, Janet, sir? What of her?"