"How dare I?" she flashed. "Keep quiet, Mistress, lest I dwell over-much on the wrong you did to father."
"But, Helen, I am your mother. Let me go, child; let me go, I say. They shall not fight."
"Mother, say you? Mother sleeps under the stone yonder. The world has been hard to me, Mistress, but it never made you kith of mine."
Mistress Wayne began to whimper, and Nell, losing her hold with a sort of hard disdain, fixed her eyes on the swordsmen, standing on the vault-stone and eyeing each other steadfastly, their sword-blades catching blue-grey glances from the moon. For Wayne of Cranshaw had been moving backward all the while, not daring to turn his face from Dick Ratcliffe lest a foul thrust in the back should end the matter. Yet Ratcliffe still held off, nor would he plant his forefoot squarely in position; and Nell, fearful lest he should refuse combat at the eleventh hour, and knowing that Rolf would never strike down a man except in fight, so taunted and stung and whipped the laggard with her tongue that his heart grew bold with fury.
The old slyness of his race was with Ratcliffe still; he made a feint of withdrawing altogether from the stone, then leaped at Wayne with a mighty cry. But Wayne was ready for the stroke, and he warded off the down-sweeping blade which bade fair to split his skull in two; his adversary reeled backward, driven by the return force of his own wild blow, and Rolf had but to strike where it pleased him to settle the issue once and for all.
But Wayne of Cranshaw misliked cold butchery, and Ratcliffe's debt was over-heavy to allow of such prompt settlement. He waited, point to ground, until the other had gained his balance; and then he made at him; and the fight waxed grim and hot. The wind sank low to a murmur; the vaultstone, shining wet, reflected their every movement, of body and of bared right arm. There was none of the nicety of fence; parry and cut it was, cut and parry, till the light danced off like water from their blades, till the women's ears were tingling with the music of live steel. And all the while the minute bell kept thundering its message across the kirkyard and over the rolling moor above; it rang for Wayne of Marsh, and it hovered between the sword-cuts that were to settle whether Wayne of Cranshaw gave his kinsman a peaceful shroud.
Wayne's wife was all a-tremble, like a foolish aspen tree; now this she murmured, and now that, until she was like to kill her lover, woman's fashion, by sheer interference of her tongue. But Wayne's daughter stood with a face of scorn, saying no word, making no motion—watching, always watching, with certainty that Rolf would end the struggle soon. At another time she would have feared for Rolf; but to-night was the dead man's, and she was deaf to love or fear or pity. Nay, the very justice of the cause seemed to have determined the issue before the fight began.
"Ah, 'tis sweet, 'tis sweet!" whispered the girl, and caught her breath as Wayne's sword-edge sliced a crimson pathway down the other's cheek.
Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had finished his spell of drinking at the tavern just below. His step was unsteady and his eyes red-ripe with liquor as he moved down the passage with intent to cross the moor to Marsh. Jonas Feather, the host, came out of his kitchen on hearing the lad's step, and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Mun I saddle your mare, Maister Wayne?" he said.