"I have a fancy, lad," said Nicholas presently, "an old man's fancy, and a worthless. You see me here now, and think the end will not be yet; but I know better. Death may come to-day, to-morrow—and, when it comes, I should like full peace to be made above my body. My folk are ready as myself; 'tis only my zeal has kept them to the feud so long. Wilt promise me this much—that thou'lt bring thy kin to my lyke-wake and make peace at the bier-side. Oaths taken at such a time bind men more straitly, I've noticed."
"But, sir, there's no need to talk of death as yet!" cried Wayne, eager to soothe the old man's trouble.
The other did not heed him. "I've not done much good in my lifetime," he went on, as if talking to himself. "Life's pity, I'm growing womanish, to sorrow over back-reckonings—yet still—'twould please me to bring this one good deed to pass. Wilt promise, lad, to grant my whim?"
"I promise gladly, sir—and trust that the need to keep it lies far off."
"Good lad! Fill up for me again, and then help me back to saddle. There's none but you would have brought me so far from home to-day."
Their hands met again when Nicholas had mounted and was ready to start. A grim humour was twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"What is it, sir?" asked Wayne.
"Nay, I was but thinking we parted in a different fashion when last we met. Fare thee well, lad, and I'll take some sort of love-sick message from thee to one at Wildwater."
Shameless Wayne went back to his seat by the hearth, and leaned his head on his hands, and wondered if all had been indeed a dream. And then his heart rose up in thankfulness, that at last the rough ways were to be made smooth.
"It was a true word I spoke," muttered the Lean Man, as he rode at a foot-pace up the hill. "The strength is dying fast in me—this peace-errand of mine is the last big effort I shall ever make." Again the smile flickered and died at the corners of his mouth.