The shepherds looked at Hiram, and then at Red Ratcliffe, who was lifting himself in dazed sort to a sitting posture; it was plain they needed but the one word to close round and stamp the life out of this treacherous hound who could aim to strike from behind when Wayne had proved his match in open fight. But Hiram had an old grievance to straighten--a grievance that had rankled ever since Red Ratcliffe interrupted his courtship on a long-dead day of spring--and he paid no heed to his comrades' meaning glances.
"So, Maister; ye fooiled me once on a time, as ye called to mind just now--an' now I've fooiled ye," said Hiram, stroking his frill of beard and watching Red Ratcliffe's lowering face.
"And, by Wayne's cursed Dog, the third time shall pay for all," snapped the other, making a second effort to stand upright.
"Mebbe, but I'm fain to hev squared th' reckoning, choose what comes. Ay, it war grand, warn't it, to get Hiram Hey to tell ye how mich ling an' bracken there war at Marsh, an' th' varry spot it war stored in? Ye went home fetching a rare crack o' laughter, I'll be bound, an' ye came that varry neet to mak use o' what I telled ye. What, ye're dizzy sick? An' I'm laughing. An' that's how th' world allus wags wi' them as thinks to best Hiram Hey."
Red Ratcliffe shook off his dizziness, and snatched a dagger from his belt. "Thou foul-mouthed sot, I'll teach thee to set thyself against thy betters," he cried.
Hiram stood, sturdy and stiff; he knew there was little chance for him, but still he hoped to come to grips with his assailant and crush his ribs in before he could compass a clean stroke with the dagger. He feared the upshot not at all, and even as he waited he smiled in his old sour fashion to think that he had settled his own private cause of quarrel with Red Ratcliffe. The wind, freshening from the west, brought up a sound of shouting with it; but Hiram had no eyes for what was chancing on the far side of the pinfold.
"Begow, I shall niver be wedded now to Martha," he thought; "a chap _can_ go too slow, 'twould seem. Ay, well, I shall be saved a power o' worry, doubtless, an' wedlock's noan all cakes an' ale, they say. But, lord, I'd right weel hev liked to try it for myseln."