They had passed the Bull tavern and were nearing the spot where the lane that led to Witherlee’s cottage ran into the Ling Crag highway. The Lean Man turning his head impatiently as Robert spoke and following the direction of his finger, saw that the Sexton’s wife was standing at the roadside. Nanny was looking through and through him, and the smile on her dry old lips was scarcely one of welcome. At another time Nicholas would have paid no heed to her; but to-day a small thing had power to touch his spleen, and he pulled up sharp in the middle of the roadway. "I’m called Nicholas Ratcliffe, woman, as perchance thou hast forgotten," he said, leaning toward her and half lifting his hairy fist; "and when I see folk mocking me, I am prone to ask them why." "When I mock ye, Maister, ye’re free to strike me, an’ not afore," answered Nanny. Her tone was quiet almost to contemptuousness; and the smile that had lately rested on her lips was hiding now behind her shrewd black eyes. Nicholas looked at her, a touch of approval in his glance; accustomed as he was to browbeat all who met him, this dried-up little body’s unconcern in face of threats half tickled and half angered him. "Hark to her, Robert!" he cried. "Free to strike her, am I? Gad, yes, and with no permission asked, I warrant!" "An’ as for mocking ye," went on Nanny, disregarding his interruption, "what need hev I to step ’twixt ye an’ Barguest?" The Lean Man was accounted hardier than most; yet he started at Nanny’s mention of the Dog, following so abruptly on Robert’s talk of a moment ago. "Barguest. What has he to do with me?" he cried. "What hed he to do wi’ your folk i’ times past? Enough an’ to spare, I should reckon. Do ye forget, Nicholas Ratcliffe, how one o’ your breed crossed Barguest once on t’ threshold of Marsh House? Do ye mind what chanced to him at after?" Nanny’s quiet assurance had in it a quality that daunted the Lean Man. Had she grown fiery in denunciation of his sins toward the Waynes—as in her hotter moments she was wont to do—had she drawn wild pictures of the doom awaiting those who crossed the Dog, Nicholas would have knocked her to the roadway and passed on. But her faith was unwavering; she had no doubt at all that the Lean Man had compassed his own end, and voice and gesture both were such as to convince a man against his will. He stared at her, a growing terror in his face. "’Tis an old tale, woman, and one we scarce credit nowadays," he stammered.—"Robert, tell her she’s a fool—a rank, stark-witted fool—and I a bigger fool to hearken to her." But Robert was in no case to bolster up his father’s dreads. He turned to Nanny sharply. "Where does all this carry us?" he said. "Dost thou mean that one of us has lately crossed the Dog?" "Ay, marry. What else should I mean?" said the little old woman. "’Tis a child’s tale—a child’s tale, I say," broke in Nicholas.