Red Ratcliffe had already shut the door and slipped the bolts into their staples. And Shameless Wayne looked on and nodded; for he, too, was wishful for closed doors. He had taken advantage of the little woman’s entry to draw off the Long Waynes of Cranshaw, the Waynes of Hill House, and his four brothers, from the bier;—they had masked themselves, as if by chance, a little apart from the red-headed host of Ratcliffes, and either side looked for awhile at the other, each hiding their sense of the wild humour of the scene. Red Ratcliffe was smooth and merry as one who dances at a rout. "Od’s life," he cried, "what with the wind, and surety that the dead man’s ghost walks cold among us, we need strong liquor. Wayne of Marsh, a bumper with you." The Ratcliffes, following his lead, moved to the table and filled a brimming cup for each one of their guests. And after that they poured measures for themselves; and Janet, listening from the little room behind to all that passed, knew that the time had come for Waynes or Ratcliffes to go under once for all. The instincts of her fighting fathers rose in her; she felt her dagger-edge, there in the darkness of her prison, and yearned to take her part in what was next to chance. But little Mistress Wayne, affrighted by she knew not what, shrank back into the window-niche and prayed. "Drink, Waynes!" cried Red Ratcliffe on the sudden. "In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe." The Waynes lifted their goblets high, and ran headlong forward, and dashed them in the faces of the Ratcliffes while yet their blades were only half free of the scabbards. "Wayne and the Dog!" the cry rang out, and before the red-heads could wipe the wine-stains and the blood from mouth and eyes, the Waynes were on them. The fight seemed long to Janet, fingering her dagger and longing for a share in it; but it was swift as the moor-wind screaming round the house of Wildwater. The wind was a tempest now; yet its voice was drowned in the blustering yell of "Wayne! Wayne and the Dog!"—-the cry that had driven the Ratcliffes from many a well-fought field. They had no chance. Surprised, outwitted, blinded by the wine-cups, they struck at random. But the Waynes aimed true and hard. One by one the Ratcliffes dropped, and still Shameless Wayne lifted the feud-cry of his house. Neither courteous nor soft of heart was Wayne of Marsh this night—nor would be till the work was done. Ten of the foe were down, and the score and five still left were fighting with their backs against the wall. A lad’s laugh broke now and then across the groans, the feud-cries, the hiss of leaping steel; for Griff was young to battle, and the two lives he had claimed had maddened him. Shameless Wayne said naught at all; but _kill_ was graven on his face.