On the evening of the same day a congenial spirit won slight concessions from her. Ned Baskerville arrived on some pretext concerning the play. He knew very well by this time that, in the matter of her engagement, Cora was a victim, and he felt, as he had often felt before in other cases, that she was the only woman on earth to make him a happy man. He despised Mark and experienced little compunction with respect to him. Upon this night Mrs. Lintern was out, and Cora made no objection to putting on her hat and going to the high ground above Shaugh Prior to look at the moon. "'Twon't take above ten minutes, and then I'll see you back," said Ned. They went together, and he flattered her and paid her many compliments and humbled himself before her. She purred and was pleased. They moved along together and he told her that she was like the princess in the play. "You say nought, but, my God, you look every inch a princess! If 'twas real life, I'd slay fifty giants and a hundred bears for you, Cora." "Don't you begin that silliness. I'm sure you don't mean a word of it, Ned." "If you could see my heart, Cora, you'd see only one name there--I swear it." "What about t'other names--all rubbed out, I suppose?" "They never were there. All the other girls were ghosts beside you. Not one of them----" Suddenly near at hand the church bells began to throb and tremble upon the peace of moonlit night. "Mark's out of the way then," said Ned. "Not that I'm afraid of him, or any other man. You're too good for Mark, Cora--a million times too good for him. I'm bound to tell you so." "I'm sick of him and his bell-ringing," she said violently. "Hullo! That's strong," he exclaimed. "So would any maiden be. He puts tenor bell afore me. 'Tis more to him than ever I was. In a word, I've done with the man!" "You splendid, plucky creature! 'Twas bound to come. Such a spirit as yours never could have brooked a worm like him! You're free then?" "Yes, I am." Elsewhere in the belfry Mark rang himself into better humour. The labour physicked his grief and soothed his soul. He told himself that all the fault was his, and when the chimes were still, he put on his coat and went to Undershaugh to beg forgiveness. Phyllis met him. "Cora's out walking," she said. "Out walking! Who with?" he asked. But Phyllis was nothing if not cautious. She had more heart, but not more conscience than her sister. "I don't know--alone, I think," she answered. CHAPTER XIII A day of storm buffeted the Moor. Fitful streaks of light roamed through a wild and silver welter of low cloud; and now they rested on a pool or river, and the water flashed; and now they fired the crests of the high lands or made the ruddy brake-fern flame. Behind Shaugh Moor was storm-cloud, and beneath it, oozing out into the valleys, extended the sullen green of water-logged fields hemmed in with autumnal hedges.