"I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There’s work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch." Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she. "Ned, I never yet asked aught of thee and was refused," she pleaded. "Hold thy peace, child! I cannot take thee—and I will not." Her eyes filled with tears; it was as idle, she could see, to turn him from his refusal as to hold him back from Wildwater. "There! I was harsh with thee. Never heed it, bairn," he said, looking toward the courtyard where already he could hear the fretful pawing of horses, the rattle of scabbards as his folk sprang into the saddle, the gruff cries of the stable-men. A thought came to him, then. He fingered the dagger at his belt, in absent fashion, and turned to ask Mistress Wayne if the room where Janet was prisoned was easy to be found. "I could show it to thee if thou would’st take me," she said, with a child’s subtlety. "Wilt make me curse thee, bairn? Where is the room, I say?" "It—it lies fair on the bridle-way. ’Tis the only chamber on that side the house." "So Janet learned their secret, and they held her back from warning us," he muttered. "What if the day goes against us? Peste! I never asked myself so mean a question before I had two lives to think for." "Ned! Where art thou?" cried Rolf from the courtyard. "There’s thy mare here, kicking all to splinters because thou wilt not mount her." But Wayne was already out in the courtyard and had stepped to the roan mare’s head. The roan ceased pawing at sight of him, and came and thrust her muzzle close against the master’s cheek; and Wayne with one clean vault was in the saddle. But his step-mother had all the cunning of the fairy-kist. Quick as himself she had followed him into the yard. The flaring torch-light showed her Griff’s boyish figure and eager, laughing face on the outskirts of the throng. "Griff, I must ride with thee to Wildwater," she said, laying a hand on his saddle. The lad started. He was a little afraid of his step-mother in these latter days, as youngsters are of those they cannot understand. "Why, Mistress?" he asked bluntly. "’Tis a whim of mine—nay, ’tis a crying need. Ask no more, Griff; it is for thy brother’s sake—and if thou wilt not take me, I’ll run beside thy stirrup till I drop." Puzzled, liking neither to take her nor to refuse a plea so urgent, Griff stooped at last and swung her to his crupper. "The Lord knows how it will fare with you at Wildwater," he muttered, as his brother’s call to start rang through the courtyard.