He was shocked to see the change in Newcastle—the weariness of mind and body palpable, now that an end had come to his guardianship of York. "My lord, you have served the King too well," he said, putting a hand on the other’s shoulder with instinctive deference to age and great infirmity. "Oh, nothing to boast of—a little here and there, to keep our walls secure. Tell me, is there to be a battle to-day? I’m good for a gallop yet, if the battle does not last too long." "There’s no chance of it at this late hour. They saw our weakness from the hill, and yet would not attack. They’re tired out, I think, as we are." "Good," said Newcastle, with his gentle laugh. "For my part, I shall claim an old man’s privilege—to step into my coach and smoke a pipe or two, and then get off to sleep. I shall be ready when you need me." "Would my hound, Boye, disturb you?" asked Rupert, turning after he had said good-night. "I like to have him out of harm’s way at these times." "Is he a good sleeper?" demanded Newcastle whimsically. "With a friend, the staunchest sleeper that I know." Boye demurred when he was bidden to get inside the coach; but, like Rupert’s cavalry, he knew the tone of must-be-obeyed, and scrambled in with no good grace. Near seven of the evening a strange thing happened on Marston Moor. On the hill above there was the spectacle of Parliament men standing with bowed heads as Cromwell sent up fervent prayers. On the moor below, the chaplain of the King’s men was reading evensong. Over both armies was a sky of sullen wrath. As the service closed, Lord Eythin protested, with an oath, that now this child’s play was over, he proposed to go in search of food. "My lord," said Rupert sharply, "wise men do not mock at prayer, in face of what is waiting for us all to-morrow." Eythin, nettled by the hum of approbation, lost his temper. "I was never wise, your Highness, as you know, but wise enough to advise you that this escapade is madness." "We shared another battle, long ago when you were General King." Rupert’s voice was icy. "Do you remember it?" The Riding Metcalfs, this once again, were dismayed by the private quarrels, the jealousies, that were threaded through the skein of war. Eythin’s insolence of bearing, his subtle incitement to distrust of his commander, asked no less from Rupert; but the pity of it, to bluff Squire Metcalf, single of heart, owing none a grudge except the King’s enemies, was hard to bear.