"'Tis a child's tale—a child's tale, I say," broke in Nicholas.
"Well, ye shall try the truth of it by an' by—for ye crossed th' Dog, Nicholas Ratcliffe, when ye came down to nail your token to th' Marsh doorway. I war watching by th' dead man, an' I heard Barguest come whimper-whimper down th' lane; an' then he scratted like a wild thing at th' panels; an' after that he ligged him down on the door-stun."
Nanny paused a moment, watching how the Lean Man took it.
"Ay, and then?" said Nicholas. He would fain have sounded merry, but his voice came dry and harsh.
"Then a man came riding up o' horseback, an' leaped to ground, an' reached ower th' Brown Dog to nail a man's hand to th' door. An' ye war th' horseman, Nicholas Ratcliffe."
Once only the Lean Man glanced at her; then set spurs to his great bay horse and clattered up the street, his son following close behind. At the end of half-a-mile they slackened pace, as if by joint consent; but neither sought the other's eyes.
"What ails thee, fool?" said Nicholas to his eldest-born.
"Naught, sir—'twas not I who fled from a crook-backed beldame," sneered the other.
The Lean Man turned on him, glad of an excuse for bluster. "Thou dar'st to say I fled?" he cried. "Thou, who wast sucking at the breast while I grew old in fight?—There, lad! 'Twas a madness in the blood that fell on us just now. What's Barguest that he should spoil a bonnie plan? Are we not sending Wayne to his last home to-night?"
"We have planned as much," said Robert slowly, "but——"