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.
The dancers looked; the few sober men by the fire turned and looked also.
"'Tis Ruby Tresidder!" cried one of the girls; "'Wudn' be i' thy shoon, Young Zeb, for summatt." Zeb shook his wits together and dashed off towards the spot, twenty yards away, where Ruby stood holding the lantern high, its ray full on her face.