"Why, Dick Ratcliffe war for carrying off yond little Mistress Wayne—her as sleeps so shameless-peaceful aboon stairs—an' Rolf Wayne o' Cranshaw met them fair i' th' kirkyard."
The Sexton roused himself, and his eyes lost their dreaminess.
"Did they fight, lass?" he cried.
"Hark to him! Give him a hint o' blood-letting, an' he's as wick as ony scoprel."
"It's i' th' blood, lass, and 'twill out at th' first taste o' blows," said Witherlee, with a shamefaced glance at his wife. "I'm not mich of a man myseln, but I aye loved a fight, an' that's plain truth."
"Well, tha'd hev seen one, I reckon, if tha'd been where Wayne o' Cranshaw war to-neet," retorted Nanny grimly. "I missed it myseln, for I war ringing th' bell; but when I came out into th' graveyard, there war Dick Ratcliffe stretched on th' vault-stone, an' Mistress Wayne greeting aboon his body. An' a rare job I had, my sakes, to get her safe within doors."
"They fought at th' vault-stone, did they?" murmured Witherlee. "Where did they stand, Nanny? An' who strake first? An' how did t'other counter?" His voice, smooth and gentle, was ill in keeping with the brightness of his eyes, the restless movement of his hands.
"How should I tell thee? I see'd nowt o' th' fight, being thrang wi' other wark."
"That's a pity, now. I allus like to hev th' ins an' outs of a fight fixed fair i' my head, so I can go ower it all again when sitting by th' hearthstone o' nights. Well, well, we shall see summat, lass, afore so varry long."
The little old woman twisted her mouth askew. "Luke," said she, "tha'rt at thy owd tricks again. Tha breeds visions an' such-like stuff as fast as a cat breeds kitlings, an' they run all on th' days when Waynes killed Ratcliffes at ivery crossroad, when ivery fair day war like a pig-killing."