"Told thee what, Ned?" she asked, not knowing whether her unwillingness were real or feigned.
"That thou'rt mine altogether—that thy thoughts are mine, and thy body, and thy pride—ay, that I've mastered thee."
Wayne kept her face tight prisoned. She could feel his touch gain fierceness; his voice had a note in it not to be gainsaid.
"Ned, I will not say it—will not—" she faltered.
And then on the sudden she put both arms about his neck, and laid her face to his, and, "Thou art my master—my master, God be thanked," she whispered.
The good-nights of birds came sleepily from the dim garden; there was a stir of laggard bees among the flowers; and pride of summer reigned for its little spell with these storm-driven children of the moor. And frail Mistress Wayne, who had watched, mute and unheeded, from the shadows that seemed scarce more unsubstantial than herself, went out and left them to it.
So for a space; and then a new sound was born of this restless, haunted night. Far off from Barguest Lane there came a shouting of gruff voices, and the sparrows in the eaves awoke to chirp a fitful protest.
Janet turned in Ned's arms and glanced toward the door. "What is't, Ned?" she whispered.
"The Waynes are here," he cried—"and I'll take a lighter heart to Wildwater, Janet, for knowing——"
"But, Ned, thou didst promise not to go," she cried.