The Squire did not understand the fine breadth of strategy that underlay this plan mapped out for him. But the messenger was well aware of it, for Sir John Mallory had a soldier’s instinct for the detail of campaign, and he had explained this venture yesterday with what had seemed a mixture of sagacity and sheer, unpractical romance. Since spending the night at Nappa, and journeying with the Metcalfs for half a day, Blake realised the Governor’s sagacity more fully. As for romance—that, too, was vivid enough, but entirely practical. Six-score men on big white horses were enough to feed the most exacting poet’s fancy; they were sufficient, too, to disturb the thick-headed, workaday routine of Lambert’s soldiery. They came to Rylstone, fair and modest as a maid, who hides from men’s intrusions. Rylstone, the village beyond praise, bordered by grey houses and the call of ancient peace—Rylstone, that dalesmen dream of when their strength has left them for a while and their hearts are tender. "She’s bonnie," said the Squire of Nappa, checking his horse from old instinct. "Yes, she’s bonnie," Blake agreed. "Rylstone bred me, and a man should know the debt he owes his mother." Then it was forward up the hill again. Blake was thinking of life’s surprises—was picturing the long impatience of his manhood, because he stood only five-foot-six to his height in a country that reared tall men. Since then he had learned to pit strength of soul against body height, and now he was bringing in the finest troop of cavalry that ever rode the dales. He was content. As they drew near to the house known as None-go-by, Blake was full of the enterprise planned out for these jolly Metcalf men. He did not propose to take them into Skipton, but left-handed into the bridle-track that led to Embsay. There was news that a company of Fairfax’s men was coming round that way from Otley, to help the Roundhead siege; and he would have fought a battle worth the while—for a small man, not too strong of body—if he ambushed the dour rogues with his cavalry brought out from Nappa. Yet his well-laid plan was interrupted. All the quiet ways of the countryside had been thrown into surprising muddle and disorder by this civil war that had come to range friends of yesterday on opposite sides of the quarrel. It should have been market-day, and the road full of sheep and cattle, sleepy drovers, yeomen trotting on sleek horses. Instead, there was silence, and the Nappa folk had all the highway to themselves until they neared the rutty track that joined their own from Thorlby and the Gargrave country.