The crowd shrank back, and even his own people were affrighted by the wild command. None knew—none guessed, save Sexton Witherlee, watching from the porch—what fury of despair, and shame, and bitterness, had gone to the making of this brute mood of the lad’s. Nor was he in case to wonder at himself; for the one moment he wished naught in heaven or earth save to see the flat stone ring down on those who would have done honest men to death by treachery. "Why do ye draw back, ye fools?" he cried. "Is it a time for maidishness, or do ye want——" "Stay, lad! Thou’lt think better of it in a while," said Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, touching him on the shoulder. While he halted, glowering from his folk to the stone, and from the stone to the Ratcliffes who lay, maimed and dumb with terror, over his father’s coffin, a frail little body, robed all in white, stepped quietly to his side. "’Tis my wedding-day, Ned," she said piteously, "and all the folk have come to mock at me, pretending ’tis a burial. What art doing here? Surely thou’lt come to church and help me find my lover there. Thou hast ever been kind to me when others mocked." Shameless Wayne was silent for a space; and then, he knew not why, his mood swung round, and grief rushed thick to eyes and throat. He took the shivering woman by the hand, and turned, and led her down the path. "Come home, little bairn; ’tis over late to see thee wed to-day, but by and by we’ll see to it," he said. She went with him quietly, her face brightening as she clung close to his arm. And all the folk crossed themselves, and held their peace, and watched the strange pair go out at the churchyard gate. "What’s to be done with these?" said Wayne of Cranshaw, after a long silence, pointing to the vault. "They shall not foul a Wayne vault, at any rate," said a kinsman. "Poor hounds! See how they tremble—they’re scarce worth the killing. Up with them, lads, and if they can stand at all, we’ll set them free to cross to Wildwater." "Ay, I warrant ye will," murmured Sexton Witherlee, who had moved to the grave-side. "But would the Ratcliffes have done the like to ye in such a case?—Well—pity comes wi’ gooid breeding, I reckon, an’ ’tis noan for us poorer sort to teach ye better—but these three may live to plague ye yet." All were gone at last—all save Parson and Sexton, who stood and looked, one at the other first, and afterward across the kirkyard. The sun was silver under grey rain-clouds now; a wet drift of mist came with the westward wind; no throstle sang, but the peewits came wheeling, wheeling, crying, crying, from across the moor, and far up above a sentinel vulture flapped wings and watched the unburied dead who lay with their faces to the rain. The Sexton had been round the graveyard once again. His battle-glee had left him, and a soft light was in his face as he leaned against a headstone and watched the Parson, who stood as he had left him, his head bent in prayer.