Too late! There was nothing to be done now. The thought maddened her. Springing to her feet, she crossed to the one small window of the room and stood looking out upon the mist-swept greyness of the heath. But there was no chance of escape, for a child could not creep through it—she must wait, then, watching the hours slip ghostly past this strip of moor—watching the dark come stealthily from the sky-edge—listening to the noise of men about the house and knowing the reason of their gaiety. And she had led Wayne here. In a flash she recalled that other day when she had sought to save him from going to Bents Farm in face of peril; now as then her very care for him had been his undoing. If he were here now—if she could have one poor five minutes with him before the end he would never doubt her love again. Then she could bear her thoughts no longer, and she threw herself time after time against the door, striving to beat it down. That brought weariness, and welcome pain of body, to her aid, and she sank into a sort of numb heedlessness that yet was nothing kin to sleep. She was roused by the sound of feet, slow-moving down the stair as if some heavy burden were being carried from an upper room. The house, empty of all furniture save such as the rough needs of their life demanded, re-echoed every sound. Janet could hear the very shuffle of the men’s boots as they halted at the stair-foot. Then, slowly, with measured burial-tread, the footfalls came down and down the passage, halted at the rearward door of the hall, made forward again until they sounded close beside the wall of Janet’s prison. What were they doing, she asked herself? And then the Lean Man’s voice sounded from the other side of the wall, and she understood the grim business that they had on hand. "Ay, well in the corner, lads," said the Lean Man. "Custom bids me lie in state in the middle of the hall—but I should ill like to cumber fighting-ground. Say, is there room for all of you—ourselves and all the Waynes in Cranshaw and in Marshcotes?" "Room and to spare, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe. "God rest the builder of the hall for giving it such width." "Well, remember to strike swift at the word. Fill up your glasses and lift them to the cry, ’In the name of the dead man—peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.’ And then—on to them while they drink, and the dead man on the bier will lift himself to watch." A subdued hum of laughter followed, broken by the Lean Man’s voice. "I warrant ye found the carrying of me no light work. By the Mass, the sweat drips from under your red thatches like rain from mistal-eaves!" Janet shuddered to hear his gaiety. This man was dying, and yet by sheer force of hate he was keeping the life in him until—but she dared not think what followed that "until." "A messenger has gone to bid the Ryecollar Ratcliffes to the wake," said another voice presently. "’Tis well. And Wayne of Marsh?"