"An old tale, Rolf!" she broke in stormily. "Ned said as much awhile since—as though, God’s pity, there could good luck come of harbouring such as her. There! I am distraught. Wilt watch the bier, Rolf, while I run out and cool my wits a little?" "The night is over cold. Bide by a warm fireside, and talk thy troubles out to one who cares for thee." "Nay, I must be alone. Let me go, dear! I tell thee, my head throbs and throbs, and I shall go the way of Mistress Wayne unless thou’lt humour me." She slipped a cloak about her, checking Rolf’s efforts to detain her, and went quietly out into the courtyard. There was a touch of winter in the air, and a touch of spring, and overhead the stars shone dewy. The girl shivered a little, but not for cold, as she crossed into Barguest lane and saw a red moon climbing up above Worm’s Hill. Up and down she paced, up and down, thinking of Shameless Wayne, of her step-mother, of everything that vexed and harassed her. Nor did her brain grow cooler for the night’s companionship; rather, the silence let stranger fancies in than she would have harboured at any other time or place. "Ned has such need to be strong, and he has ever been weak as running water," she muttered, and stopped, and wondered that the breeze which blew from the moor-edge down Barguest lane had grown so chill upon the sudden. Aware of some vague terror, yet acknowledging none, she held her breath and bent her ear toward the lane-top. A sound of pattering footsteps drifted down—they were close beside her now, as the wind brushed her cloak—and now again the footsteps were dying at the far end of the lane. And a whine that was half a growl crept downward in the wake of pattering feet and icy wind. "’Tis Barguest!" muttered Nell, and raced down the road, and across the courtyard, and into the hall where Wayne of Cranshaw sat watching by the dead. Her pride was gone now, and the last impulse of defiance. She waited no asking, but put her arms about Rolf’s neck and bade him hold her close. "I heard the Hound’s voice in the lane just now," she whispered. "There’s trouble coming on us, Rolf—more trouble—I never heard his step go pattering down the road so plain." "Didst never hear the water try its new trick, thou mean’st. I was a fool to let thee go and nurse thy fancies in such a spot," said her lover roughly. But his eyes had another tale to tell, and across his brow a deep line of foreboding showed itself. "Fancies go as soon as thought of, and naught comes of them—but when did I hear Barguest in an idle hour?" she said. "Dear, I am ashamed—but—thou canst not hold me close enough—hark. There’s something at the door—a whining, Rolf, and the scrape of paws against the oak——" "Ay, ’tis Barguest," said Nanny Witherlee, stepping soft across the polished boards and resting one hand on the bier. "There’s naught, save a wet wind sobbing through the firs," growled Wayne of Cranshaw.