"Nay, they're an ill lot—but even the Lean Man would scruple to set on mourners at a grave-side."
"Trust an owd head, Maister. Witherlee put a plain question to Red Ratcliffe yestermorn; he axed him fair an' square if they meant to let th' burying go by i' peace; an' he telled by th' look o' th' chap 'at they meant to do no sich thing.—Lad, I'll not axe ye to believe, for ye've getten your father's trick o' thinking th' best of ony mon save yourseln; but I will axe ye to humour an owd body's fancy, and to send as quick as may be to your kin at Hillus, an' Cranshaw to bid 'em buckle their sword on afore they come to Marsh."
"When did Marshcotes ever see armed mourners at a graveside?" he said, eyeing her doubtfully. "'Twill wear a queer look, Nanny, if no attack is made."
"It 'ull wear a queerer, my sakes, if they come an' cut ye all i' little pieces. For owd sake's sake, Maister, promise me ye'll do it. Yond's Simeon stirring at th' back o' th' house; I should know his step by now, for he walks as if one foot war flaired-like to follow t' other. Bid Simeon get hisseln to horseback——"
"I doubt it still, nurse. What if the Lean Man has nailed his token to the door? There's time and to spare, by the Heart, for what will follow."
"Fiddle o' that tale!" cried the Sexton's wife briskly. "If ye choose to lig cold i'stead o' warm, I've ta'en trouble enough wi' ye i' times past, that I hev, to warrant my stepping betwixt ye an' ony sich-like foolishness. An' if ye doan't send Simeon, I'll walk myseln both to Hillus an' to Cranshaw—ay, that I will—Maister, do ye knaw 'at th' Lean Man crossed Barguest last neet as iver war?"
Shameless Wayne shook his head, smiling a little at the old woman's fancy. "How should that be, nurse?" he said.
"Barguest war carred on th' door-stun, fair as if he'd been ony mortal dog; an' while th' Lean Man war agate wi' hammering his nail in, I heard th' hound whimper fit to mak ye cry for pity of him. But Nicholas Ratcliffe niver heard th' poor beast, not he; an' I hugged myseln to think 'at ivery stroke on th' nail-head war a stroke to his own coffin. Ye've getten your chance, Maister, an' I willun't let ye loss it for a lack of a bit o' forethowt."
Insensibly Wayne yielded to the old beliefs; reason might chide him, but he knew in his heart, from that time forward, that he would be even with the Lean Man before the end. What tales had Nanny not told him in childhood, of Barguest and his ways? What musty traditions were not grafted on his growing manhood, of the certain disaster that waited any foeman of the Waynes who crossed the Spectre Hound? Ay, he believed, and his eyes shone clear with the first light of hope that had touched them since he returned two nights ago to the Bull tavern, a sobered and heart-stricken man.
"There's Nell!" cried Wayne on the sudden, pushing Nanny roughly into the house. "For God's sake keep her within-doors, nurse, till I have plucked down yonder trophy."