"And not the Dog only, Ned," she went on, quietly, "but I saw thee stand on the brink of Wildwater Pool again—thee and Janet—and she cried to thee across the crimson waters like one whose soul is in dire torment." "God keep us, bairn!" he cried. "Why didst not tell me this before? Did Janet speak in thy dream? Did she say aught of the Lean Man or her folk?" "Naught; she did but wring her hands, and bid them hasten.—Ned, Ned, where art going?" "Going? Why, to Wildwater. Red Ratcliffe has taken advantage of the old man’s weakness.—God, bairn! Shall I be in time to save the lass?" "’Twas no more than a dream, Ned," she stammered, trying to block his way. "I never thought ’twould drive thee up to Wildwater." "How could it do less?" he answered, putting her from him and buckling on his sword-belt. "I laughed at dreams a while since—but only when they promise peace need we have doubt of them." She followed him to the door, still piteous with entreaty. "Ned, have a care! The Lean Man is on our side now, but he is only one, and they are many at the grim house on the moor—rough men and cruel, like those who met me once and told me thou wast dying.—Well, then, if thou must go, let me come with thee!" "Thou, bairn?" he cried. "What should such as thou do up at Wildwater? There, I’ll come safe home, never fear; and keep thou close within doors, meanwhile, for thou’rt over-frail to meet these blustering winds." She stood there at the door until he had saddled his horse and brought it round from stable; and again she sought to keep him from his errand. But he paid no heed to her, and soon she could hear his hoof-beats dying up the lane. "God guide him safe," she whispered, and held her breath as the wind rose suddenly and set the hall-door creaking on its hinges. All morning she wandered up and down the passages, afraid of the dreams that had racked her through the night, doubtful if she had done well to give Ned warning, in hourly dread lest some ill news of him should come from Wildwater. All morning the wind sobbed and wailed, as if there would never again be gladness over the cloud-hidden land. And under the wind’s note Mistress Wayne could hear the patter-patter of soft feet, ceaseless and unrestful, till for very dread she wrenched the hall door open once again and went into the courtyard. But the footsteps followed her, and once she sprang aside as if some rough farm-dog had brushed her skirts in passing. Wild the storm was in this sheltered hollow, but on the open moor it was resistless. The wind’s voice in the chimney-stacks, piteous at Marsh, was a scream, a shriek, a trumpet call, up at the naked house of Wildwater, and the walls, square to the harshest of the tempest, shook from roof to the rock that bottomed them, as if they grudged shelter to the sick man whom they harboured. For Nicholas Ratcliffe had taken to his bed on the day that followed his ride to Marsh, and he knew that he would never rise from it again.