"Art minded, I see, to take up the tale just where we left it on the moor when last we met," cried Janet, with a flash of scorn.
"Does the tale go lighter, Janet, for what has been added to it since we met? Thy folk came down to Marsh, and one of them did not go back again."
"Thou didst not bid him come—nor I wish him God-speed on his errand," said Janet, with a last effort to persuade him.
But Wayne made no answer—only stood there with a line cut deep between his brows and his face moulded beyond hope of change, it seemed, to an obstinacy that was almost surly.
"Nay, he was heartless," said Janet to herself. How often had she crossed the moor, full of the same eagerness that had come with her to-day? And he had always offered her less than she had brought him. Of old, some late debauch had dulled his welcome; and nowadays he met her with a sternness that was harder still to bear. Headstrong, with her strength and her need of happiness at flood, the girl could see but the one issue; it was Wayne and she, here on the quiet moor, and she would brook no interference from without.
"He's heartless," she repeated, and set one foot on the narrow bridge.
Wayne of Marsh stood at the further end, not moving to make way for her. And Janet, had she glanced at him, might have read indecision plainly in his face.
"Let me pass," she said, cold as himself. "The brigg, I take it, was built for all the moorside, and even a Ratcliffe is free to cross by it."
For answer he stood more squarely across her path. "I'll not let thee go!" he cried. Then, as if asking her help against himself, "Janet," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder, "I have killed three of thy folk, and the Ratcliffes in times past have slain more of mine than the fingers of both hands could count. Thou'rt free to pass, and—I was a fool to block thy way."
She looked him fairly in the face. "If thou hadst not killed when it was thy right, should I have thought the better of thee for it?" she asked.