"Nay, only hinted at it. What was this bargain, Janet?"
Lower still her voice dropped. "That I should be given to the one who slew thee," she said.
She glanced once at him, and for the first time since leaving Wildwater she felt a touch of fear. For Shameless Wayne had given a cry—a cry such as she had never hearkened to, so deep it was, so brutish in its rage against those who had agreed to this foul bargain. He sprang to her side—she could feel his arms close masterful about her—and then, with some strange instinct of defence, she forced herself away.
"Not that, Ned," she cried. "Is it a fit hour for—for softness?—And see, thou'rt wounded, Ned—and I've had no time to tell thee——"
A dozen feints of speech she would have tried to keep him at arm's-length, but Wayne would none of them.
"There's one wound, lass, of thy own giving, that matters more than all the rest," he said.
"Hush! I'll not listen. There's work to be done—'twill not wait—it is no fit hour, I tell thee."
The last flush of gloaming stained the dark oak walls, the spears and trophies of the chase that hung on them; it lighted, too, the girl's straight figure and bent head, as she shrank against the window—shrank from Wayne, and from the knowledge that her will was broken once for all. Ay, she was conquered, she who had lived her own life heretofore; what if she could hide it from him? Was it too late to escape into the free wilderness where she was mistress of her thoughts and secrets? It had been easy once, when they had met, boy and girl, to pass light love-vows at the kirk-stone; but this was giving all to him, and her pride rebelled, ashamed of its own powerlessness.
But Wayne was not to be held in check. He wooed like a storm-wind, and like a reed she bent to him.
"It is a fit hour," he cried—"and what is to be done will wait, child, till thou hast told me—" He stopped, and lifted her face till she was forced to meet his glance.