"Was it a Ratcliffe who killed father?" asked Ralph suddenly. They had no understanding of death, as yet, these youngsters; its sorrow glanced off from them, too vague and dark to oust their lads' relish of a fight.
"Ay—and a Wayne who slew the murderer yesternight."
"Why, then, 'twas thou!" cried Griff. "Old Nanny told us that the eldest-born must always fight the father's enemy. Where didst thrust him, Ned?"
Shameless Wayne grew hot, and the blood flushed red to brow and cheeks. "Go seek your suppers, lads," he said, turning on his heel.
Going to the kitchen, still bent on finding some dainty that would tempt his step-mother, he found Nanny Witherlee, the Sexton's wife, talking hard and fast to one of the maids.
"Th' young Maister 'ull noan deny it me, I tell thee," Nanny was saying.
"Then ask him, Nanny, and he'll tell thee quickly whether or not he will deny thee," said Shameless Wayne from the doorway.
"Sakes, Maister! I war that thrang wi' spache—though 'tis noan a habit o' mine—that I niver heard your step. I've comed up fro' Marshcotes to axe a bit of a kindness, like."
"Thou'lt win it, likely, for I'm in a softish mood," said Wayne, half sneering at himself.
"'Tis that ye'll let me watch th' owd Maister th' neet-time through. I knawed him when he war a young un, an' I knawed him when he wedded th' first wife, an' I nursed ye all fro' babbies. 'Twould be kindly, like, to let me sit by him this last neet of all."