Three days later Rupert came in, after seeing to the needs of Bolton. He came for rest, before pushing on to York, he asserted; but his way of recreation, here as elsewhere, was to set about the reconstruction² of battered³ walls. Christopher Metcalf, raw not long ago from Yoredale, wondered, as he supped with them that night, why he was privileged to sit at meat with these gentles who had gone through fire and sword, whose attire⁴ was muddied and bloodstained, for the most part, but who kept the fire of loyalty⁵ like a grace that went before and after the meat they ate hungrily. He was puzzled that Lord Derby toasted him, with the smile his own father might have given him—was bewildered when the men rose to the toast with a joyous⁶ roar.  
"The young Mecca for the King—the White Knight⁷ for the King!"
 
All he had dreamed in Yoredale was in the doing here. Kit⁸ was unsteadied by it, as if wine were mounting to his head.
 
"My thanks, gentlemen," he said. "Be pleased to nickname me. For my part, I feel like the ass¹ Michael rode to York—patient and long-suffering, but no knight at all."
 
"How did Michael ride to York?" asked Derby, with a gust⁹ of laughter.
 
So then Kit told the tale, losing his diffidence and pointing the narrative¹⁰ with dry, upland humour.
 
"Good, Mr. Metcalf," said Lady Derby. "I have not laughed since my lord rode out, until to-day. Where is this Michael who rode to York?"
 
"With the rest of the good Metcalfs," said Rupert. "I left the whole fine brood to guard Lathom from without. They go north with me in two days' time. You shall see them—six-score on their white horses." A shadow crossed his face; the so-called failing of the Stuart temperament¹¹ was his, and he counted each man lost as a brother to be mourned for.
 
"Why the cloud on your face, Prince?" asked Lady Derby.
 
"There are only five-score now. When we counted our dead at Bolton, there were some gallant¹² Metcalfs lying face upward to their God."
 
A sickness came to Christopher. He turned aside, and longed for the mother who had sheltered his young days. Bloodshed and wounds he had foreseen; but to his boy's view of life, it seemed incredible that any of the jolly Yoredale clan¹³ should die—should go out for ever, beyond reach of hand-grip.
 
"Was my father with the slain—or Michael?" he asked by and by.
 
"Neither, lad." Rupert came and touched him on the arm. "Oh, I know, I know! The pity of one's dead—and yet their glory—it is all a muddle¹⁴, this affair of war."
 
It was on the second morning afterwards, while Rupert was getting his army in readiness for the march on York, that Lady Derby saw Christopher standing¹⁵ apart, the new sadness in his face.
 
"You are thinking of your dead?" she said, in her brisk, imperative¹⁶ way. "Laddie, do you not guess that the dead are thinking, too, of you?"
 
"They rest where they lie," he said, stubborn in his grief.
 
"Oh, go to kirk more often, and learn that they know more than we do. These twenty Yoredale men, they are not dead—they watch you from the Heights."
 
"My lady," said Christopher, with a smile made up of weariness, "I am a plain man of my hands, like all my folk. I have no gift for dreams."
 
"Nor I," she agreed. "When wounds conquer all your pride of strength—when you are laid by, and weak as a little child—ask yourself if I spoke¹⁷ dreams or living truth."
 
He glanced once at her. There was an odd look about her, a light in her eyes that he could not understand.
 
He forgot it all when he joined his folk to ride behind Rupert for the relief of York. The high adventure was in front, like a good fox, and his thoughts were all of hazard and keen blows. They crossed the Lancashire border; and, when Kit learned that the route lay through Skipton-in-Craven, his heart warmed to the skirmish that his fancy painted. He was looking backward to that crashing fight—the first of his life—when the White Horsemen drove through the Roundhead gun-convoy and swirled¹⁸ down to battle in the High Street. He was looking forward, as a boy does, to a resurrection of that fight, under the like conditions.
 
Instead, he found the business of market-day in full swing. The Castle was silent. Lambert's guns, away on Cock Hill, were dumb. Farmers were selling ewes and cattle, were standing at inn doors, wind and wine of the country in their honest faces.
 
"What is all this?" asked Rupert of a jolly countryman.
 
"Skipton Fair—naught more or less. There's a two days' truce¹⁹, or some such moonshine, while either side go burying their dead. For my part, I've sold three heifers, and sold 'em well. I'm content."
 
Rupert had had in mind to go into the Castle, and snatch a meal and an hour of leisure there while he talked with the Governor. He could not do it now. Punctilio—the word spelt honesty to him—forbade it. He glanced about and saw Kit close beside him.
 
"Knock at the gate, Mr. Metcalf, and bid Sir John Mallory come out and talk with me."
 
The drawbridge was down in accordance with the truce, and Kit clattered²⁰ over it on his white horse. He knocked at the gate, and sent Prince Rupert's message forward. In a little while Mallory came out, a pleasant gentleman, built for hard riding and all field sports, whom Providence²¹ had entrusted²² with this do-nothing, lazy business of sitting behind walls besieged²³.
 
"The Prince commands you, Sir John," said Kit, with great precision.
 
Formality was ended on the instant; for Mallory clapped him on the shoulder and laughed like a boy let loose for play. "By the Lord Harry²⁴, I'm glad to get out of doors—and for Rupert, of all men."
 
In the great sweep of roadway that mounted to the Castle gate—the grey, comely²⁵ church beside it—Prince Rupert met Mallory with hand outstretched.
 
"Well done, friend! If it had not been a day of truce, I had hoped to come indoors and crack a bottle with you. As matters stand, we hope to slake²⁶ our thirst at a more convenient time."
 
"There's no hindrance²⁷, your Highness. Lambert, who besieges²⁸ us, is doubtless entertaining friends at the Quaker meeting-house in this good town. Why should you not accept the warmer sort of hospitality we Cavaliers affect?"
 
"Oh, a whim²⁹. I can tell you in the open here—No Man's Ground—what I came to tell you. It would not be fair to hide my news behind closed gates."
 
Mallory glanced sharply at him. Rupert's fury in attack, his relentless³⁰ gallop³¹ through one battle after another—-the man's whole record—had not prepared him for this waywardness of scruple³². The next moment Rupert's face was keen and hard.
 
"We ride for York, Sir John," he said, "and I give you the same errand I shall give Knaresborough's garrison³³ later on. Keep Lambert busy. Sortie till these Roundheads have no rest, day or night. Turn siege into attack. The Lady of Lathom has taught us what a slender garrison may do."
 
"Does she hold out still?" asked the other eagerly. "We have so little news these days."
 
"She has captured twenty-seven standards, friend, and is rebuilding her walls in preparation for the next siege."
 
"God be thanked!" said Sir John, lifting his hat. "There are so few great ladies in our midst."
 
"And so few great gentlemen, Mallory. Nay³⁴, friend, do not redden because I praise you to your face. We know Skipton's story."
 
Lambert was not at the Quakers' meeting-house, as it chanced. He was on Cock Hill, passing the time of inaction away by looking down on the Castle that had flouted³⁵ him so often. His thrifty³⁶ mind was busy with new methods of attack, when he saw Rupert with his advance-guard come up the High Street. The light—a strong sun beating down through heavy rain-clouds—-showed a clear picture of the horsemen. By the carriage of their heads, by the way they sat their horses, Lambert knew them for Cavaliers. As he was puzzling out the matter—loth to doubt Sir John Mallory's good faith—a man of the town came running up.
 
"The truce is broken, Captain Lambert. Here's a rogue³⁷ with love-locks—they say he's Prince Rupert—come with a press of horsemen. He's talking with Sir John Mallory fair in front of the Castle gateway³⁸."
 
Lambert's temper fired. What he had seen accorded with the townsman's view. Something quixotic in the man's nature, that always waited on his unguarded moments, bade him go down and ask the meaning of it all. It seemed to him that his faith in all men would go, root and branch, if Sir John Mallory were indeed less than a simple, upright gentleman. He reached the High Street, and made his way through the press of soldiery and townsfolk till he reached the wide space, in front of church and Castle, where the Prince stood with Mallory.
 
"Sir John," he said very coldly, "I come to ask if you break truce by free will or compulsion."
 
"By compulsion, sir," said Rupert, with a quick smile. "I ride too fast for knowledge of each town's days of truce. Sir John here came out at my request, to talk with me. You are Captain Lambert, I take it? Ah, we have heard of you—have heard matters to your credit, if you will permit an adversary³⁹ so much freedom."
 
Lambert yielded a little to the other's easy charm; but it was plain that the grievance⁴⁰ rankled⁴¹ still.
 
"Well, then, I'll give you punctilio for punctilio, sir," went on Rupert. "The King's needs are urgent I could not wait—truce or no, I had to give my orders to Sir John here. To be precise, I urged him to harry you unceasingly. I told him that we were pressing forward to the relief of York. Is honour satisfied? If not, name a convenient hour for hostilities⁴² to open. My men are here. Yours are on the hill yonder, where your guns look down on us."
 
Lambert's humour, deep-hidden, was touched at last. "Press on to York, by your leave. Mallory, I'm in your debt. I doubted your good faith just now."
 
"That was unwise, Lambert. Eh, man, the troubled days will soon be ended—then, if we're both alive, come sup with me as of old."
 
Kit, when they took the road again, was bewildered a little by the shifting issues of this madness known as civil war. The Prince, Lambert, and Sir John—three men conspicuously⁴³ survivals from Crusading days—had talked in the High Street of honour and punctilio—-had shown the extreme courtesy of knights⁴⁴ prepared to tilt⁴⁵ against each other in the ring at any moment—-and all this with the assault of Bolton and the red havoc⁴⁶ of it scarcely ended, with rough fights ahead, and York's garrison in piteous need of succour.
 
"Why so moody⁴⁷, li'le Christopher?" asked Michael, riding at his brother's bridle-hand.
 
"I fancied war was simple, and I'm losing myself among the mists, somehow."
 
"An old trick of yours. Mistress Joan taught it you. There was a lady, too, in Knaresborough, who gave you lessons in the pastime."
 
"But this Captain Lambert is besieging⁴⁸ Skipton, and Mallory defends it, and one asks the other to sup with him when the affair is over. That is not stark⁴⁹ fighting, Michael."
 
"Why not, lad? Lambert's cannon⁵⁰ will thunder just as merrily when the truce is ended. The world jogs after that fashion."
 
It was when they were pressing on to York the next day—after a brief night's sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as best he could—that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses that carried the Metcalf clan. He reined⁵¹ about on finding Michael.
 
"You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a second time. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, and sorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be of service."
 
"My thanks for the errand. May I ask a second boon⁵², your Highness?"
 
"Oh, I think one would grant you anything in reason. A man with your merry eyes is privileged."
 
"I had a sutler's donkey with me in the first attempt. She brought me luck, undoubtedly—we had the like temperament, she and I—but we lost her during th............