"There's somebody dead," he muttered, staring vaguely at the belfry-tower. "Is't—is't father? Did yond old fool talk plain truth, when all the while I thought he jested?" he went on after a moment's pause. And then he tried to laugh, and swaggered up the path, and vowed that the bell was leagued with Jonas in this daft effort to make a laughing stock of him throughout the moorside.
But another sound greeted him from the far side of the yew-trees—the clash of steel, and the hungry, breathless cries of men who were fighting to the topmost of their strength. His step grew soberer; he turned the bend in the path noiselessly, and saw what was doing on the vault-stone. He stood stock-still, and his face was smooth and empty while the wine fumes cleared enough to let him understand the meaning of all this.
And then the meaning took him full, and the anguish in his eyes was strange and terrible to see.
Ratcliffe of Wildwater, meanwhile, maddened by the swordcut that had slit his cheek, made a sudden onslaught on his foe; and Rolf escaped the blade by a bare half-inch; and Ratcliffe stumbled once again, pressed by his own idle blow. Mistress Wayne sprang forward, eager to save the craven who had snared her fancy; but Nell gripped her by the arms, and forced her back, and whispered, "Strike!" But neither of the women had leisure to mark that a loose-limbed lad, with a face as old as sorrow, and a hand that played never-restingly with his sword hilt, had swelled the number of those who watched the fight.
Twice Shameless Wayne made as if to join the fray, and twice he held back, while Ratcliffe recovered in the nick of time and warded desperately—while Rolf's blade pried in and out, seeking a place to strike.
"Oh God, that I could claim the right!" muttered the lad, half drawing his sword again.
"Nell, save him! Your lover will listen to you—the night wears late and dreary—we want to reach Saxilton," pleaded Mistress Wayne.
Not a word spoke the girl. Not a word spoke the wind, shuddering into the corners of the graveyard for dread. But the laboured breathing of the men sounded loud as a cry almost in the quiet place. Ratcliffe, for all his coward's heart, was a cunning swordsman enough when need compelled, and now, his first panic lost, he was settling to a steadier effort.
"Remember!" cried the girl, as she saw her cousin give back a pace.
Wayne of Cranshaw regained his lost ground, and swung his blade up to the blue-black sky; there was a rough jag of steel, the clatter of a sword on the hollow vault-stone, a groan from Ratcliffe of Wildwater?