Her eyes were wide with amazement, and anger, and a hard sort of contempt. "That is the Wayne pride," she said—"what they call honour, but what their neighbours call stark folly. Nay! I know what is in thy mind. Women have no hold on the niceties of honour, thou would'st say—but I tell thee, Wayne of Marsh, if thou'rt to fight this through like a man, not like a want-wit babe, thou'lt have to use the Lean Man's weapons. What are scruples when life—life, Ned, the one thing that we're sure of——"
"The Wayne pride may be folly," he broke on stormily, "but it has kept Marsh House standing for three hundred years, and I seek no better."
"Then thou'lt not be warned?"
"I shall ride to Bents Farm on Thursday, as I had in mind to."
"And wilt thou take none with thee?"
"I meant to take none, and I'll not shift from my path by a hair's-breadth."
"Fool, fool!" she cried, casting about for some fresh turn of pleading that might weigh with him. "It is told now—I cannot recall my warning, Ned; at least make such use thou canst of it."
"Hast lived so long with the storms, Janet," said he, smiling gravely, "that thou hast learnt naught of Fate? What will be, will be, girl, and if I'm to die by a Ratcliffe blade in three days' time—why, 'tis settled; if not, thy warning still goes for naught."
Stung by his disdain, she ceased pleading, and allowed her own right pride to have its say. "So be it; but I would have thee know this before I leave thee. There's somewhat hangs on the taking of thy life—somewhat that touches my welfare nearly."
"What is't?" he asked, eyeing her curiously.