"Waynes," said Ned grimly, as they clattered to the door, "they think us over-gentle, these Ratcliffes; but to-night, I warrant, we'll be something better than our reputation. Kill."
"By the Mass, we shall see fair sport at last!" cried Griff, his face afire with eagerness.
Mistress Wayne laid a hand on Ned's arm as he was following the rest. "I—I want to come with thee," she faltered.
"To come with me?" he cried impatiently. "Thou look'st fitter for thy bed, foolish one."
"Say it is fancy—only take me. I'll not fear the bloodshed—I'll not give one cry—take me, Ned!"
"But, bairn, what should I do with thee?"
"Hast heard what they say in Marshcotes—that I am thy luck, Ned? Thou'lt win to-night if I am near at hand."
He reasoned with her, stormed at her, all to no purpose; for the little woman could be obstinate as himself when she believed that his safety was in case.
"I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There's work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch."
Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she.