He knew her better than to thwart her mood at such a time, and let her go; but while she was crossing to the door, a frail little woman came out from the hall and moved to meet them. "What, bairn!" said Wayne gently. "We’ve fought our troubles through together, thou and I; and there’ll be none can break our friendship now, I warrant." "Blood, blood—see how it drips—oh, hurry, hurry! The stain can never be washed out if once it reaches Wayne of Marsh—he lies under the vault-stone yonder—he stares at me with cruel, unrelenting eyes." And Wayne knew that she had fallen back to the witlessness of that long-buried night when he had watched his cousin fight above the vault-stone. The crash of blows, the bloodshed and the tumult, had touched the hidden spring in her and made her one again with those piteous-happy folk whom Marshcotes gossips called the fairy-kist. A great awe fell upon him as he watched the milk-soft face under its loosened cloud of hair, as he hearkened over and over to the happenings of a night that was scarce less terrible than this. That was the night which had re-opened the old feud of Wayne and Ratcliffe but this had killed it once for all. "Will my lover ever come, think’st thou?" said Mistress Wayne. "The post-chaise has been waiting long—the horses fret—the postillion says we shall never gain Saxilton unless Dick Ratcliffe hastens." She paused, and her mind seemed for a space to grapple with the present. "Didst see Barguest steal into the hall?" she whispered. "He came and couched at the bier-side—and then he sprang—come see the teeth-marks in the Lean Man’s throat." She beckoned them so imperiously that they were drawn against their will into the reeking chamber, and between the still heaps of the slain, and up to the bier whereon Nicholas Ratcliffe lay with death stamped livid on his face. Quietly as if it were a usual office, the little woman turned down the shroud and pointed to the sinewy throat; and Janet’s eyes met Wayne’s across the body of their foe, while they whispered one to the other that Mistress Wayne saw something here which was denied to any save the fairy-kist. Wayne of Cranshaw came striding into hall, and after him Griff and his brothers, with a press of Hill House folk behind. But Rolf silenced them when he saw the figures by the bier, and led them quiet out into the night. "Best leave them to it," he muttered to a kinsman. "’Tis an ill knot to unravel, and God knows how ’twill fare with yond sad pair of lovers." They stayed there for awhile, Wayne and Janet. The battle-heat went from him; passion was stilled; he stood and went over, one by one, the turmoils that were past—stood, and watched the hate of feud shrink, mean and shamed, into the darkness that had bred it—stood, and wondered to what bitter harvesting the aftermath of feud must come.