"Peace, I say!—Whenever I die, girl, be it to-day or when it will, do thou take the news to Wayne of Marsh and bid him to the lyke-wake with all his kin. Wilt do this much, Janet?" "I will do it gladly, sir." "It may be to-night, Janet. Art prepared?—Yet, Lord, I doubt they will not come! Girl, will they come, think’st thou?" "Grandfather, what ails you? Is’t not enough that you have righted this evil quarrel? You rode down to Marsh, at a time when you had scarce strength to sit the saddle; you showed Ned that he could trust you; you won him to the side of peace. What then? Lie back on your pillow, sir, and rest content." "Rest? There’s no rest," he muttered. "Fears crowd thick about a dying man; fears are carrion crows, girl, that never swoop until a man is past his strength. I fear everything, I tell thee—everything." "I’ll not wait, sir; let me go see Wayne of Marsh this moment—’twill ease thee to know I ’have told him how hour by hour your eagerness for peace grows hotter." "Ay, go! Have thy mare saddled, and ride with the wind’s heels. Tell Wayne to be prepared against my death—the death his folk are watching for. Bid him come to the lyke-wake on peril of his soul, for the curses of the dead are no light load to bear. Bid him in God’s name or the devil’s——" His voice tripped for very feverishness; his eyes burned with a sombre fire; there was no doubting that this last whim of his had grown to be an overmastering passion. "I will persuade him, grandfather, have never a fear of that," said Janet, as she went to do his bidding. She turned at the door, and saw that he was following her with his eyes; and she stopped for a moment, spellbound by the scene. The wind was raving overhead; the light that filtered through the panes was leaden, streaked with a storm-red; the gurgle of rain, the hiss of hail, came never-ceasing from across the moor; it was as if the earth were riven asunder, and all the waters of the earth were gathering to a head. And there, silent amid the uproar, lay the Lean Man of Wildwater, with the fire-scars on his face, and the red lump that stood for his left ear, and the strained look that comes when the one-half of a man is palsied. "How drear it is, how drear!" murmured Janet, and looked at the Lean Man again, and saw that a bitter sadness had come into his face—a sadness whose depth she could not fathom. "Come back," whispered the Lean Man, beckoning feebly to her.—"Thou hast loved me well, Janet," he went on, as she stooped above him. "I have loved you well, grandfather—better than ever you knew of." "But less than Wayne of Marsh—Wayne, who thwarted me at every turn—who—there, lass! What am I saying? That is wiped out, and haply I like him none the worse because he gave shrewd blows. God, to think how fain I am to see thee wed to him—safely wed to him."