"He will be gladdening at your death by this time, sir; for Ralph here, who rode down to Marsh, as thou badest him, to tell them of thy death——" "Returns," put in Ralph, "with Wayne’s greeting to my kin, and his pledged word that he and his will come to the lyke-wake after sundown." "Lord Harry, what a night ’twill be!" cried the Lean Man. "Do ye wonder, lads, that I was eager to get me to the bier before I need? I like the feel of it; I like to meet yond dotard death half-way and show him that I have scant respect for him. Death? What is death, when I shall see the sweep of swords on splintering skulls before I leave? Come, wrap the cere-cloths round me; they’ll be softer bedfellows than any wife I ever lay beside." Janet listened to it all and wondered if her wits were playing her false. This man, who could rest on his own bier and play with the death which was already overwatching him—was he the grandfather she had loved, or some bog-begotten thing that had come from out the moor and claimed his body? It might be so, for strange tales were told of what chanced to men who halted between this world and the next. Again she turned to the window, striving to keep her wits by deadening sense and hearing to what was passing on the other side of the wall. Without, grey clouds were hiding the last edge of sunset, and a grey mist was trailing up the pathway of the wind. Oh, for a moment’s freedom! No more—for not the wind itself could race as she would race to warn the Ratcliffes’ enemies. She passed a hand across her eyes, thinking that in sober truth she was going mad at last. For out of the mist-wreaths a figure—a frail figure, with wet, wind-scattered hair—was coming toward the house of Wildwater. Janet, awe-stricken, watched it draw near and nearer yet; and then, with a rush of hope that was almost agony, she saw that it was no phantom, this, but Mistress Wayne of Marsh—Ned’s stepmother, and his constant friend. Clenching her fist she drove it through the window-pane with one clean blow. "Quick! I’ve a word for you, Mistress Wayne," she stammered, dreading lest one of her folk should come to learn the meaning of the crash. "Yond is the pretty traitor," she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Let her break every shred of glass the window holds—not even her slim body can win through the opening." Mistress Wayne, startled out of the lonely musings that had kept her company across the moor, turned about as if to flee; but terror held her to the spot. "’Tis I—Janet Ratcliffe—Ned’s sweetheart—do you not know me, Mistress?" cried Janet, feverishly. The little woman drew near a step or two and eyed her gravely. "I remember—yes, you are Janet Ratcliffe—why did you fright me so?" she whimpered. "Mary Mother, must our safety rest with such a want-wit babe as this," muttered Janet.—"Come closer, Mistress!" she went on peremptorily. Mistress Wayne obeyed the stronger will, though still she was afraid of she knew not what.