The Prince and Nowell glanced at each other with a quick smile of sympathy. Here, in the reek and havoc of the street, was a simple-minded gentleman, fresh as dawn on the hills that bred him—a man proved many times by battle, yet with a starry reverence for ancient deeds and ancient faith. "May your nurse rest well where she lies," said Roger Nowell, the laughter in his grey eyes still. "In spite of a headache that throbs like a blacksmith’s anvil, I salute her. She reared a man-child. As for those at Lathom, I share their gladness, I admit. A bandaged head is better than none at all." Then all was bustle and uproar once again. Men came bringing captured colours to the Prince; and in the middle of it Lord Derby found them. "Welcome, Derby," said the Prince, "though, for the first time since I knew you, you wear the favours of both parties." "Be pleased to jest," laughed the other. "For my part, I know my wife will soon be seeing me at Lathom." "But, indeed, you wear both favours—rebel blood on your clothes, and a warmer crimson running from your thigh." Derby stooped to readjust the bandage. Sickness of body was nothing. Long battle for the King who did not trust him was forgotten, as a service rendered freely, not asking for return. "It is permitted, these bleak days, that a man ask grace to love his wife and hurry to her side?" "Get home to Lathom, but not just yet. I have a gift for that brave wife of yours." Through the uproar came other zealots, bringing captured colours in, until seven-and-twenty were gathered in the market-square. "These speak for the strength of the attack on Lathom," said Rupert, his voice lifted for all men to hear. "Take them to Lady Derby as a token of my high regard. Tell her that it is easy for men to charge at speed and win their battles, but hard for women to sit behind crumbling walls and hold the siege. If I were my Lord Derby, I should be proud of such a wife." "Your Highness would," assented Derby with sharp, humorous simplicity. "I have husbanded her, and know her mettle." Again the ebb and flow of the battle scarcely ended swept across their talk. A hot-headed band of Cavaliers was bringing fifteen prisoners through at the double. The captain of the Royalist band, drunk with the wine of victory, laughed stridently. "To the ramparts with them. Give them short shrift on the walls! Measure for measure, say I, and curse these psalm-singing butchers." Through the laughter of the troop came Rupert’s voice, harsh and resonant. "Who are these, Captain Sturgis?" Sturgis saluted. He had heard that voice more than once in the thickest of the onset, while Rupert was winning his spurs as a leader of light cavalry. The wine of victory left him. "A few crop-headed folk, your Highness," he said lamely. "We proposed to make them a warning to other butchers of Cromwell’s following."