"Nay, 'twas but a half truth," she said, eagerly. "There's life before thee, Ned, and swift deeds——"
He put a firm hand on her shoulder and forced her to look him in the face. "Nell, I was drinking in the Bull tavern while the bell tolled for father from the kirk-tower. Say, didst think I knew what had chanced at Marsh?"
Again the old note of reproof sounded in Nell's voice. "I told Nanny Witherlee that thou didst not know, and I tried hard to think it, Ned—but how could it be? The gossips at the Bull must have told thee for whom the bell was ringing, for the news had long since spread through Marsh cotes."
"They did tell me," began Shameless Wayne.
"Ah, God!" murmured Nell, confessing how she had clung to the last shred of doubt.
"And I thought they lied. I thought, Nell—'twas the fool drink in me—that Jonas and his cronies were minded to have the laugh of me by this lame tale of how Wayne of Marsh had come by his end. Think, lass! When there was no feud, and naught to give colour to a Ratcliffe sword-stroke—how could a head three-parts gone in liquor believe it true?"
She, too, stopped and sought his eyes. "Ned, thou hast lived wild, but one thing I have never known thee do—thou dost not lie to save thy good repute. Wilt swear to me that thou knew'st naught of what had happened?"
"By the Dog, or by any oath that holds a man," he said, and she knew that he spoke plain truth.
"Why, then, 'twas thy ill fortune, dear, and we'll look clear ahead, thou and I."
"Yet the shame of it will cling, Nell. Wherever my name is spoken, there will some one throw mud at it. Whenever I see one man talking with his fellow, and mark how sudden a silence falls on them at my approach, I shall know that they were sneering at Shameless Wayne, who sat heels on table while his father's soul wailed up and down the moorside crying for vengeance. The Ratcliffes will taunt me with it by and by."