Hiram Hey was looking steadily at the master now, a hard wonder tempering his obstinacy a little. And so they eyed each other, until the older man’s glance faltered, and recovered and fell again to the white spots of lime that littered the peat-mould at his feet. "Now," said Wayne, "thou hast got thy cart full, Hiram. Give yond chestnut of thine a taste of thy hand, and we’ll see if thou hast learned yet to spread a field." "Hev I learned to spread a field? Me that hes sarved at Marsh, man an’ boy, these forty years!" cried Hiram, open-mouthed now. "Thou hast done good service, too, for father gave his word to that; but whether thou canst spread limed peat—why, that is to be seen yet." Not a word spoke Hiram, but gave the chestnut one resounding smack with the flat of his hand and fell to work as soberly, as leisurely, as if he had not just been given the hardest nut to crack that ever had come his way. All across the field, as he followed the cart and swung wide spades-full right and left, he was puzzling to find some explanation of this new humour of Shameless Wayne’s; but he returned to the heap as wise as he left it, and began stolidly to refill the cart without once looking at the master. "Nay, I’m beat wi’ him," he muttered. "What it means is noan for me to say—but I warrant ony change i’ Shameless Wayne is for th’ war——" "Put that sort of work into it, Hiram, and we shall see a good crop yet," called the master drily, and linked his arm through Nell’s to help her down the slope. They had not gone a score yards, and Hiram Hey was still wondering at his powerlessness to give Shameless Wayne "a piece of his mind," when a horseman passed at a foot-pace along the bridle-track above. Beside him walked another horse—a rough-coated bay, that carried a man’s body swung across its back. Carelessly fastened the body was, and every now and then, as the nag slipped and stumbled up the rocky slope, the dead man’s arms, his head and high-booted legs, made quick nods of protest, as if the journey liked him little. "Christ guide us, what is this?" cried Nell, aghast at the drear spectacle. And then she looked closer at the on-coming rider, and lost her mawkishness upon the sudden. "’Tis one of the Ratcliffes of Wildwater," she said, with the same passionate tremour in her voice that Nanny Witherlee had heard last night up in the belfry-tower. "Ay, by his red thatch," muttered Shameless Wayne—"and now he turns his face this way, ’tis he they call Red Ratcliffe—the meanest hound of them all, save him who lies across the saddle-crupper yonder." "Why, canst see who ’tis?" Nell whispered. "Ay—thou say’st him last with a sword-blade through his heart." The horseman had reined in at a stone’s-throw from them. "I carried news to Wildwater this morning," he said, glancing from Nell Wayne to her brother. "Good news or bad, Red Ratcliffe?" answered Wayne in an even voice.