At four of the next morning Lady Ingilby's vigil was ended. There came a Parliament man to the gate of Ripley, asking urgently for General Cromwell. When he was admitted to the dining-chamber¹, he saw Cromwell with his head still prone² upon the table—saw, too, the grim figure of a lady, who turned to level a pistol at his head.  
"Your errand?" asked Lady Ingilby.
 
"With General Cromwell. He is needed at Long Marston."
 
"They are welcome to him. He's not needed here."
 
Cromwell shook himself out of sleep. "Who asks for me?" he said, getting to his feet.
 
For the moment he thought he was tenting in the open, with only one eye and ear closed in sleep before the next day's march began. Then he glanced round the parlour, saw Lady Ingilby's grim, contemptuous face. When the Parliament man had whispered his message, word for word, Cromwell, with grim irony³, thanked his hostess for the night's hospitality, and asked if he were free to take the road.
 
"None more free. On the road, sir, you will meet the democracy whom you befriend—will meet your equals."
 
Humour had some hiding place in Cromwell's soul, after all. As they passed out, the messenger and he, he laughed quietly. "She's of Rupert's breed. They'd make good Parliament men, the two of them, if we could persuade them to our side of the battle."
 
Lady Ingilby opened the parlour window, listened till Cromwell's sharp command had brought his troopers into line, and heard them go on weary horses down the street. Then she went to the hall, in search of cloak and hood⁵, and encountered Christopher.
 
"Good morrow, Mr. Metcalf," she said, after the first start of surprise. "One of your clan⁶ always comes when I'm most in need of you. My husband—does he lie dead on Marston Moor⁷?"
 
"He was alive when we broke Cromwell's Ironsides, for I heard his cheery shout. After that Leslie routed us, and—I do not know."
 
"He may be alive, you think?"
 
"Why not? I shared the trouble with him, and I'm here."
 
Impetuous, strong for the deed, and strong for yielding to emotion afterwards, she came and touched him on the shoulder. "My thanks—oh, indeed, my thanks. Only to fancy him alive is peace to me. I need you," she added briskly. "You will take charge of my women-folk here, until I return from—from an errand of mercy."
 
"Let me take the errand."
 
"Ah, but you could not. Only I can do it. Sir, is it no welcome change for you to tend helpless women? You have had your holiday at Marston."
 
"It was a queer merry-making."
 
"But your wounds show to the public eye—wounds of honour. You carry the red badge of knighthood, sir, while I have only a few more grey hairs to show for all these months of waiting."
 
"You cannot go alone," he protested. "The roads will be full of raffish⁸ men."
 
"The roads must be as they will. For my part, I have to take a journey. Come, saddle me a horse, sir, by your leave. My grooms⁹ were all out with the King's party yesterday."
 
When they crossed to the stables, a shrill¹⁰ cry of welcome greeted them; and, for all the gravity of what was past, Kit¹¹ could not check a sudden laugh. "Why, 'tis Elizabeth, the good ass⁴ that helped Michael into York! We thought to have lost her somewhere between this and Lathom House."
 
Elizabeth came and licked Kit's face; even if he were not Michael, the master well-beloved, he was at least near the rose. And then Kit pushed her aside; it was no time for blandishment.
 
There were two horses only, left behind because unfit for battle. They looked oddly lonesome, with the six empty stalls beside them stretching out into the lights and shadows thrown by the lantern.
 
"A man's saddle," said Lady Ingilby briskly. "You'll find it in the harness chamber yonder."
 
Kit, when the livelier of the two horses was ready, understood why she had chosen a man's saddle. It carried a holster; and into this, after looking at the priming and uncocking it with masculine precision, she slipped the pistol that had over-watched Cromwell's slumbers¹² not long ago. And his wonder grew; for, during months of intimacy¹³ with Ripley's household, he had learned that Lady Ingilby, at usual times, was motherly, unwarlike, afraid of powder and the touch of sharpened steel.
 
As he led her horse to the mounting-steps at the far side of the stable-yard, the lilt of tired hoofs¹⁴ came up the roadway. Young dawn was busy up the hills, and into the grey and rosy¹⁵ light rode Michael. He was not dressed for a banquet. His clothes were yellow with the clay of Marston Moor, his face disordered by wounds lately dried by the night's east wind. But the soul of him was Michael's—wayward and unalterable.
 
"At your service, Lady Ingilby," he said. "I heard a donkey bray¹⁶ just now, and fancied it was Elizabeth, crying over milk spilled at Marston."
 
"It was no white milk, Mr. Metcalf, by the look of you."
 
"The thunder-rain was red in the ditches. It was a good fight, and it's ended. So, baby Kit, we're first to the tryst¹⁷, we two. I've been wondering, all from Marston hitherto, whether you were dead or living."
 
Christopher found one heartache stanched¹⁸. The sense that Michael was here, instead of on the wet ground of the Moor out yonder, was vivid happiness. "Elizabeth will be glad," he said indifferently. "She was crying for you not long ago."
 
Then he was urgent that Michael should be left here on guard, and he had his way. He borrowed the other's horse; and, after all, Lady Ingilby was glad to have an escort through the roads.
 
"You have news of my husband?" she asked Michael, without hope of any answer that sufficed.
 
"None," said Michael, "save that we were in the thick of it—Kit, and he, and I—and I heard a man near me say that Ingilby was fighting as if three men's strength were in his body."
 
"That is no news," said the other drily. "He was ever that sort of man."
 
When they had ridden out, she and Kit, and had come to the hollow where dog-roses and honeysuckle were blooming spendthrift to the warmer air of dawn; she turned in saddle. "Your brother spoke¹⁹ of coming to a tryst. What tryst?"
 
"It was this way. Before the relief of York, it was agreed among the Riding Metcalfs that, if the battle sped, Ripley could look to its own needs. If the fight was lost, we were to come soon or syne—those left of us—to guard you."
 
Lady Ingilby reined²⁰ in—an easy matter with the pensioner²¹ that carried her. "In these evil modern times, are there still so many of the elder breed? One here and there I could understand, but not six-score of you."
 
"There are fewer now. We lost a few at Bolton, and Marston Moor was worse. Those who are left will come in. Their word is pledged."
 
The spaciousness²² of summer on the hills returned to Lady Ingilby. Siege, and hardship, and the red fight at Marston went by. Here was a man who had fought, lost blood and kindred to the cause—a man simple, exact to the promise made.
 
"I am glad of your escort, after all," she said. "You were breeked in the olden time, I think."
 
"What is our route?" asked Christopher by and by.
 
"To Marston. If my husband is abroad, well. If he's dead or dying, he may need me."
 
It seemed to Kit, through all the perils²³ of the road, through the instant dangers that beset²⁴ them from the thievish folk who hang upon the skirts of war, that a little, silver light went on ahead, guarding their passage. But he was country-born and fanciful. At Ripley, Michael the careless went indoors and found the old man-servant fidgeting about the hall.
 
"Well, Waddilove," he said, throwing himself on the long-settle, and holding his hands to the fire-blaze, "it seems long since I knew you as body-servant to Sir Peter Grant in Yoredale. I've fought and marched, and had my moments—ay, Ben, moments of sheer rapture²⁵ when we charged—and now I come from Marston, and all's ended, save a thirst that will drink your cellars dry before I slake²⁶ it."
 
Waddilove did not know "Maister Michael" in this mood of weariness. "Ye used to be allus so light-hearted, come shine or storm," he muttered.
 
"That is the worst of a high reputation. One falls to earth, old sinner. I've no jest, no hope, nothing but this amazing thirst. If there's wine left in the Castle, bring it."
 
Ben was literal in interpretation²⁷ of an order. When he returned, he brought two bottles of Madeira and a rummer-glass.
 
"Oh, good!" said Michael, with something of his old laugh. "Fire and wine—I need them." He kicked the logs into a blaze. "It seems odd to need warmth, with midsummer scarce past, but I've brought a great coldness from the Moor. Gentlemen of the King's—men who should be living for him—are lying where they fell. There was no room for a horse's hoofs; one had to trample²⁸ the loyal dead. Wine, Ben! Pour me a brimmer for forgetfulness."
 
And now Waddilove understood that this gay wastrel²⁹ of the Metcalfs was on the edge of sickness—not of the body only, or the mind, but of the two. In his eyes there was a fever and a dread³⁰. Not knowing what to do—whether wine were friend or adversary—he obeyed the order. Michael drained the glass in one long, satisfying gulp³¹. "One can buy peace so easily—at a price," he said. "Fill again for me, Daniel, and we'll drink confusion to Noll Cromwell."
 
While the wine was between the bottle and the glass, a little lady came into the hall. She had a carrot in her hand, and trouble was lurking³² in her young, patrician³³ face.
 
"Who is this, Ben?" she asked, withdrawing a step or two, as she saw the patched and mud-stained figure on the settle.
 
"Michael Metcalf, at your service. No need to ask your servant vouch³⁴ for me."
 
He had risen. From his great height, shivering and unsteady, he looked down at her.
 
"But, sir, you are unlike yourself. Your eyes are wild."
 
"So would your pretty eyes be, Mistress Joan, if you'd shared Marston Fight with me. I've seen a King lose his cause—his head may follow."
 
Joan was aware of some new strength behind the man's present disarray³⁵. "Does your love for the King go so deep, then? We thought you light of heart."
 
"Always the same gibe³⁶. I have talked with the King, and I know. Our lives were slight in the losing, if we had given him the battle. But we lost it. What matters now, Joan?"
 
"This, sir—that the King still needs his gentlemen."
 
Michael stood to attention. She had always bettered his outlook on life, even in his careless days. Now, with every nerve at strain, she showed him a glad, narrow track that went upward, climbing by the ladder of adversity.
 
"As for that," he said, with an odd smile, "I thank you for a word in season. It will keep Sir William's cellars from a period of drought."
 
Waddilove, watching the man, could only wonder at his sharp return to self-control. He did not know that, so far as Michael was concerned, Joan Grant brought always the gift of healing.
 
"Heartsease, that's for remembrance," said Michael, after a troubled silence, "and carrots, they're for Elizabeth the well-beloved."
 
She caught the sudden hope, the challenge in his glance. Clearly as if he had put the thought into speech, she knew that he clung to the old love, told more than once in Yoredale. He hoped—so wild a lover's fancy can be—that, be............