She turned back from the window and groped for her tinder-box.  The glow, as she blew the spark upon the dry rag, lit up a very pretty but tear-stained pair of cheeks; and when she touched off the brimstone match, and, looking up, saw her face confronting her, blue and tragical, from the dark-framed mirror, it reminded her of Lady Macbeth.  Hastily lighting the candle, she caught up a shawl and crept down-stairs.  Her clogs were in the hall; and four horn lanterns dangled from a row of pegs above them.  She caught down one, lit it, and throwing the shawl over her head, stepped out into the night.

The wind was dying down and seemed almost warm upon her face.  A young moon fought gallantly, giving the massed clouds just enough light to sail by; but in the lane it was dark as pitch.  This did not so much matter, as the rain had poured down it like a sluice, washing the flints clean.  Ruby’s lantern swung to and fro, casting a yellow glare on the tall hedges, drawing queer gleams from the holly-bushes, and flinging an ugly, amorphous shadow behind, that dogged her like an enemy.

At the foot of the lane she could clearly distinguish the songs, shouts, and shrill laughter, above the hollow roar of the breakers.

“They’re playin’ kiss-i’-the-ring.  That’s Modesty Prowse’s laugh.  I wonder how any man can kiss a mouth like Modesty Prowse’s!”

She turned down the sands towards the bonfire, grasping as she went all the details of the scene.

In the glow of the dying fire sat a semicircle of men—­Jim Lewarne, sunk in a drunken slumber, Calvin Oke bawling in his ear, Old Zeb on hands and knees, scraping the embers together, Toby Lewarne (Jim’s elder brother) thumping a pannikin on his knee and bellowing a carol, and a dozen others—­in stages varying from qualified sobriety to stark and shameless intoxication—­peering across the fire at the game in progress between them and the faint line that marked where sand ended and sea began.

“Zeb’s turn!” roared out Toby Lewarne, breaking off The Third Good Joy midway, in his excitement.

“Have a care—­have a care, my son!” Old Zeb looked up to shout.  “Thee’rt so good as wed already; so do thy wedded man’s duty, an’ kiss th’ hugliest!”

It was true.  Ruby, halting with her lantern a pace or two behind the dark semicircle of backs, saw her perfidious Zeb moving from right to left slowly round the circle of men and maids that, with joined hands and screams of laughter, danced as slowly in the other direction.  She saw him pause once—­twice, feign to throw the kerchief over one, then still pass on, calling out over the racket:—­

   “I sent a letter to my love,
   I carried water in my glove,
   An’ on the way I dropped it—­dropped it—­dropped it—­”

He dropped the kerchief over Modesty Prowse.

“Zeb!”

Young Zeb whipped the kerchief off Modesty’s neck, and spun round as it shot.