"Well, lass, I have brought thee a wedding-gift of the choicest," said Wayne, as they neared Marshcotes village.
"And what is that, Ned?" Her voice was cold, for she would not forget how Janet Ratcliffe had supplanted her, had driven her into wedlock before she wished for it.
"What is it? Why, the knowledge that the Lean Man has fought his last. I would not tell before, seeing thee so busy with thy bridal-wear—but yestereven we met on Ling Crag Moor, he and I, and fought it out."
The light came back to her eyes. "Didst kill him?" she asked eagerly.
"Nay, for the storm robbed me. I had him, Nell, and just was striking when the lightning snatched my blow."
"'Tis well, Ned. I had liefer thou hadst given the blow—but he is dead, and I'll take that thought to warm me through my bridal."
Wayne eyed her wonderingly, for he had looked for greater softness at such a time. "He is not dead, lass; his sword arm was crumpled—but for the rest, he could make shift to get him home."
"Thou—didst—let him go?" Nell had come to a sudden halt, and her voice was low and passionate.
"God's life, what else could any man have done? Wast bred a Wayne, Nell, or did some Ratcliffe foster-father teach thee to trample on a stricken man?"
"Thou should'st have killed him," she answered, and went slowly forward.