And then the "save thou" brought back her womanishness for a space; and she fell to sobbing in his arms; and the churchyard gate, up above them, began to grumble on its hinges.
Wayne of Cranshaw put her from him and his hand went to his belt. "Have they taken the foot-road across the moor?" he whispered. "Ned Ratcliffe was never the man to do aught but slink, and slink, until needs must that he move into sight of honest men.—Nell, for shame's sake, give me the right."
"Ay, take it—but make no mistake, dear—clean through his heart—can I trust thee?"
The gate clashed to. The wind roved in and out among the graves. The passing bell boomed out its challenge, and was dumb for a long minute. Wayne of Cranshaw laughed soberly.
The Sexton's wife, meanwhile, went on with her knitting, click-clack, up in the belfry-tower. The bell swayed back and forth, bent on its work of mercy. A great white owl was driven through the window-grating, putting out the rushlight as it blundered across the chamber.
"Good-hap to this devil's weather. Good-hap to the lassie's arm," croaked the ringer, and picked up a stick she had dropped.
CHAPTER II
AND TWICE FOR THE SLAYER'S SHRIFT
Dick Ratcliffe passed through the kirkyard-gate, with Wayne's wife of Marsh clinging close to his arm.
"Need we have crossed the graveyard?" said the woman, stopping with one hand on the gate. Dainty of figure she was, with a face all milk and roses; and her tongue lisped baby-fashion, refusing the round speech of the uplands.