Cromwell rode back toward Marston, to find his men. He was kin to Rupert in this—disaster or triumph, he must find those who needed him. At the end of a half-mile he met a rider cantering up the rise. The moonlight was clear and vivid, after the late storm, and the rider pulled his horse up sharply. "The battle is ours, General, and I’ve my Lord Fairfax’s orders for you." "The battle is ours?" demanded Cromwell gruffly. "I do not understand." "None of us understand. Fairfax was three miles away, sleeping in a farmstead bed-chamber, when we roused him with the news. It was Leslie’s men who broke their centre and drove round Rupert’s flank. The thunder was in all our brains, I fancy." Cromwell laughed. All his austerity, his self-pride warring against the humility he coveted, were broken down, as Rupert’s cavalry had been. "Then it’s for the siege of York again?" he asked. "Fairfax says the risk is too great. The Moor is full of our dead, and we’re not strong enough. He bids you get your men together and hold Ripley, going wide of Knaresborough—which is a hornet’s nest—until further orders reach you. That is my message, General." "Good," said Cromwell, tightening the bandage round his throat. "Where are my men?" He found them—those who were left—in scattered companies. And a lusty roar went up as they saw him ride through the moonlight, swaying on the thick farm-cob that carried him. "It’s fourteen miles to Ripley, lads, but we’ll cover it." On Marston Moor the Royalists had pursued their advantage to the full. Rupert’s men and Eythin’s had run wild on the ridge-fields up above. And Leslie saw his chance. With his Scots he charged down on the White Coats, weakened by siege before the fight began. They kept their pledge; their coats were dyed with crimson martyrdom—and so they died to a man, resisting Leslie’s charge. Leslie himself paused when the work was done. "They were mettled thoroughbreds," he said huskily. "And now, friends, for the ditch that Rupert leaves unguarded." It was so, in this incredible turmoil of storm and fight and havoc, that the battle of Long Marston was lost to the King. Rupert, getting his men in hand at long last, returned to face another hand-to-hand encounter. With the middlewing past sharing any battle of this world, the affair was hopeless. Rupert would not admit as much. The Metcalfs, a clan lessened since they joined in evensong an hour ago, would not admit it. To the last of their strength they fought, till all were scattered save a few of them.