marston moor was fought and ended. a mortal blow had been struck at the king's cause in the north; and yet the metcalfs, rallying round lady ingilby at ripley, would not admit as much. the king must come to his own, they held, and marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way.

york capitulated, and squire metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged his shoulders.

"it's a pity," he said. "we must get on without the good town of york—that is all."

lady ingilby glanced across at him. for the first time since marston moor she smiled. "and if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?"

a great sob broke from the squire, against his will or knowledge. "lady ingilby, there are fewer metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "i went through marston fight, moreover. it is not my faith that weakens—it is just that i am human, and my courage fails."

none spoke for a while. the mistress of ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the squire had learned. those who had gone through the stress and anguish of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. it was as if some presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword and pike.

"if there were two metcalfs left of us all," said the squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with king charles. and, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be the last to die for his majesty."

the moment passed. it was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. metcalf filled his glass afresh. the men were glad to follow his good example.

"your health, lady ingilby—your good health," said the squire.

while they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. his face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud.

"gad, here's blake!" laughed kit metcalf. "blake, the rider—i saw him bring the metcalfs into oxford."

blake nodded cheerily. "life has its compensations. i shall remember that ride down oxford high street until i die, i think. lady ingilby, i've a message from your husband, for your private ear."

a great stillness had come to lady ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "he was always a good lover. you can give his message to the public ear."

"he escaped from marston with twenty men, and hid in wilstrop wood. there was carnage there, but your lord escaped. and afterwards he fell in with prince rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at york. he bids me tell you he is safe."

"was that all his message, mr. blake?"

"no, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me."

"i—am very tired. my courage needs some open praise. what was my lord's message?"

blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and lady ingilby laughed. keen youth was in her face. "gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. i am proud, and—and a woman again, i think, after all this discipline of war. my husband bids me hold ripley castle for as long as may be, if the metcalfs come."

"there never was much 'if' about a metcalf," said the old squire. "our word was pledged before ever marston fight began."

"oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances might have come between your pledged word and yourselves. you might have died to a man, as the whitecoats did—god rest them."

the squire's bluntness softened. the tenderness that is in the heart of every yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "true. we might all have died. as it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained to the goodwife up in yoredale."

and again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing why, till lady ingilby broke silence. "such gaps need no explaining. they are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden cross, and over it the words 'for valour.' there, gentlemen, i weary you with dreams. lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses for you. it will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the sentries are ready at their posts."

they could make nothing of her. gay, alert, she went about the board, the wine-jug in her hands. the message from her lord that blake had whispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strong sun eats up a rimy frost. when she bade them good-night and passed out, it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being had gone and left them dull.

on the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. the fall of york had sent cromwell's men like a swarm of bees about the land. dour and unimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. men who had been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with heady glee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. some of their officers could not believe—honestly, each man to his conscience—that there was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the king's who wore love-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced to carry a fine courage under frivolous wearing-gear.

the squire of nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by a din and shouting from the courtyard underneath his bed-chamber. at first he fancied he was back on marston field again, and raised a sleepy challenge. then, as the uproar increased, he got out of bed, stretched himself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement open.

the summer's dawn was moist and fragrant. his eyes, by instinct, sought the sky-line where, in yoredale, hills would be. here he saw only rolling country that billowed into misty spaces, with a blurred and ruddy sun above it all. the fragrance of wet earth and field flowers came in with the warm morning breeze. he was a countryman again, glad to be alive on a june day.

then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, and his face hardened. "give you good-morrow, cropheads," he said gently.

"and who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.

"a mecca for the king. ah, you've heard that rally-call before, i fancy. your own name, sir?"

"elihu give-the-praise."

"be pleased to be serious. that is a nickname, surely."

a storm of protest came from the soldiery, and elihu took heart of grace again.

"idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness and martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "since i forswore brown ale and kept the narrow track, men know me as elihu give-the-praise."

"then, as one who relishes brown ale, i ask you what your business is, disturbing a riding metcalf when he needs his sleep?"

"our business is short and sharp—to bid you surrender, or we sack the castle."

"your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the squire, and shut the casement.

he crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "rouse yourself, meccas! what lads you are for sleeping!" and there was a sudden tumult within doors louder than the din of puritans outside. it was then, for the first time, that lady ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose wrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clan discipline.

the men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no good temper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. when the squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. sleep went by them like a dream forgotten. the roundheads underneath fired some random shots, as a token of what would follow if there were no surrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole of the castle front. they were not idle shots. elihu give-the-praise, with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of a splintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, and panic followed.

"a thrifty dawn," said the squire of nappa, as if he danced at a wedding.

for that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep within the ripley walls. parliament men, in scattered companies, marched to replace the slain and wounded. there were sorties from the castle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyard space lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial. there was not only famine sitting on the ripley threshold now, but pestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead or living men.

in the middle watch of the fourth night, squire metcalf heard a company of horsemen clatter up to the main gate. he thrust his head through a casement of the tower—the loopholes had been widened in these modern days—and asked gruffly the strangers' errand.

"surrender while you can, nappa men," said the foremost horseman.

"it is not our habit."

"there's a company of fairfax's men—a thousand of them, more or less—within call."

"ay, so are a thousand cuckoos, if you could whistle them to hand. who are you, to come jesting at the gates?"

"nephew to lord fairfax, by your leave."

"that alters matters. i'm metcalf of nappa, and aye had a liking for the fairfaxes, though the devil knows how they came into t'other camp. their word is their bargain, anyhow."

fairfax laughed. the sturdy bluntness of the man was in keeping with all he had heard of him. "that is true. will you surrender—leaving all arms behind you?"

"no," said the squire of nappa. "bring your thousand cuckoos in, and i promise 'em a welcome."

he shut the casement, called for his son christopher to take his sentry-place, and sought lady ingilby.

"there's a good deal to be done in five minutes," he said, by way of breaking the news to her.

"oh, you think only of speed these days, and i—believe me, i am tired."

"'tiredness butters no haver-bread,' as we say in yoredale. there are two ways open to us—one to surrender by and by, the other to ride out to-night."

"but my husband—-oh, he left me here to hold the castle."

"for as long as might be. he'll not grumble when he learns the way of our riding out. better leave ripley now, with honour, than wait till they starve us into surrender."

he had his way. in silence they made their preparations. then metcalf lifted a noisy rally-cry as he led his men into the courtyard. and the fight was grim and troublesome. when it was done, the metcalfs turned—those who were left—and came back for the womenfolk; and some of the white horses, saddled hastily, fidgeted when for the first time they found women's hands on the bridle.

michael was one of those who gave his horse, lest a woman should go on foot; and at the courtyard gate, while the press of folk went through, he halted suddenly.

"kit," he said, "there's li'le elizabeth braying as if all her world were lost. 'twould be a shame to forget her, after what she did for me at york."

christopher was young to defeat. "it's no time to think of donkeys, michael," he snapped, humour and good temper deserting him in need.

"i defend my own, lad, whether marston moor is lost or won. i'm fond of elizabeth, if only for her skew-tempered blandishments."

when he returned from the humble pent-house where they had lodged the ass, the squire had got his company ready for the march, and was demanding roughly where michael was.

"here, sir," said michael, with the laugh that came in season or out.

"making friends with your kind, lad," snapped the other. "well, it's a thrifty sort of common sense."

the odd cavalcade went out into the dewy, fragrant dawn. about the land was one insistent litany of birds—merle and mavis, sleepy cawing of the rooks, and shrill cry of the curlews and the plover. a warm sun was drinking up lush odours from the rain-washed fields and hedgerows.

"eh, but to see my growing corn in yoredale!" sighed squire metcalf. "as 'tis, lads, we're heading straight for knaresborough, to learn how they are faring there."

joan grant had been content, till now, to sit christopher's horse and to find him at her stirrup.

"i do not like the knaresborough country," she said, with gusty petulance.

"not like it? their garrison has kept the cropheads busy."

"oh, ay, master christopher! there's nothing in the world save sorties and hard gallops. to be sure, we poor women are thrust aside these days."

"what is it?"

"what is it, the boy asks. i thought you grown since yoredale days; and now, kit, you're rough and clumsy as when you came a-wooing and i bade you climb a high tree—if, that is, you had need to find my heart."

they rode in silence for a while. christopher thought that he had learned one thing at least—to keep a still tongue when a woman's temper ran away with her. but here, again, his wisdom was derided.

"i loathe the tongue-tied folk! battle, and audience with the king, and wayfaring from yoredale down to oxford—have they left you mute?"

"less talkative," he agreed; "i've seen men die."

for a moment she lost her petulance. "you are older, graver, more likeable. and yet i—i like you less. there was no need—surely there was no need to—to let others tell me of the ferry-steps at knaresborough."

"the ferry-steps?"

"so you've forgotten that poor maid as well. i pity miss bingham now. why do women hate each other so? instead, they should go into some sisterhood of pity, hidden away from men."

"they should," assented christopher; "but few of them do, 'twould seem."

"and now you laugh at me. oh, i have heard it all! how pleasantly nidd river runs past the ferry-steps. she is beautiful, they tell me."

"i have no judgment in these matters. ask michael—he was there with me in knaresborough."

michael had chanced to overtake them at the moment, elizabeth following him like a dog. "nidd river—yes, she is beautiful."

"it was miss bingham we talked of. i—oh! i have heard such wonderful tales of her. she glamours men, they say."

michael, for a breathing-space or two, was silent. then he recaptured the easy-going air that had served as a mask in harder times than this. "she glamoured me, miss grant—on my faith, she did—whenever kit would leave her side. the kindest eyes that ever peeped from behind a lattice."

"miss bingham seems to be prodigal of the gifts that heaven has given her."

"true charity, believe me—to spend what one has, and spend it royally."

"she seems, indeed, to be a very perfect hoyden. oh, i am weary! marston moor is lost. ripley is lost. are we going to ride for ever along dreary roads?"

"three of us go on foot—kit the baby, elizabeth and i. we have no grumbles."

she turned on him like a whirlwind. "if the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it."

"'twould sweeten the end, at any rate. there's irish blood in me, i tell you."

from ahead there sounded a sharp cry of command. "hi, meccas, all! the enemy's in front."

war had lessened the ranks of the metcalfs, but not their discipline. michael and his brother clutched each a horse's bridle, after helping the women to alight, and sprang to the saddle. even elizabeth shambled forward to take her share of hazard, and joan found herself alone. and the gist of her thoughts was that she hated kit, and was afraid that he would die.

she watched the metcalfs spur forward, then slacken pace as they neared the big company coming round the bend of the road. the old squire's voice rang down-wind to her.

"king's men, like ourselves? ay, i see the fashion of you. and where may you be from, gentles?"

"i'm the late governor of knaresborough, at your service."

"and i'm the squire of nappa, with all that the cropheads have left of my riding metcalfs."

the governor saluted with extreme precision. "this almost reconciles me to the loss of knaresborough, sir. we have heard of you—give you good-day," he broke off, catching sight of michael and christopher. "we have met in happier circumstances, i think."