He said nothing of his fourth love—the high regard he had for the Duchess of Richmond—the love that had so little of clay about it, so much of the Pole Star’s still, upleading glamour. Instead, he bustled forward on the road; and about noon the vanguard of his army found itself on Marston Moor. It was a wild country, clumps of bog and gorse and heather islanding little farmsteads and their green intaken acres. On the slopes above, wide of Tockwith village, they could see the smoke of camp fires and the passing to and fro of many Roundheads, hefty in the build. "They were ever good feeders," said Rupert lightly. His whole face was changed. The lines of weariness were gone. The surety of battle near at hand was stirring some vivid chord of happiness. It was a sane happiness, that sharpened brain and eye. The country was so flat that from the saddle he could see the whole range of this battlefield in prospect. He marked the clumps of intake—bean-fields white with flower, pastures browned by the drought, meadows showing fresh and green after last week’s ingathering of the crop. He saw Wilstrop Wood beyond, and the ditch and ragged fence half between Wilstrop and the hill on which the Parliament men were eating a good dinner for the first time in many months. "My right wing takes position this side the ditch," said the Prince at last, pointing to a gap in the hedge where a rough farm-lane passed through it. "Now that is settled, gentlemen, I’m free of care. Mr. Metcalf," he added, turning to Michael, "go find your kinsmen and bid them join me. It is the only honour I can give them at the moment; and the King’s wish—my own wish—is to show them extreme honour." Christopher remained in close attendance on the Prince. The most surprising matter, in a nine months’ campaign of surprises, was Rupert’s persistent memory for the little things, of grace and courtesy, when battle of the starkest kind was waiting only for the arrival of Lord Newcastle and the garrison of York. "They’ll not be here within the hour," said Rupert, "and this is a virgin country, so far as food goes. My men shall dine." *CHAPTER XVII.* *PRAYER, AND THE BREWING STORM.* He knew his men. After a rousing charge, and a red lane mown along the track their horses took, he had no control of them; they must pillage as they listed. Before the combat, he could trust their pledge to take no more than an hour to dine, to be prompt at the muster afterwards, as he trusted his own honour.