The first two miles were purgatory, because Kit’s heart was young, and fiery, and tender, because he felt the sufferings of the wounded as his own. The flight, on this side of the Moor, went no further; and for the rest of the journey he had only trouble of the going to encounter. He came late to Ripley Castle; and the sentry who answered to his knocking on the gate opened guardedly. "Who goes?" he asked. "Christopher Metcalf, sick with thirst and hunger." The door was thrown open suddenly. In the ill-lighted hall he saw Ben Waddilove, the old manservant of the Grants, who had ridden—long since, when last year’s corn was yellowing to harvest—in charge of Mistress Joan. Marston Moor was forgotten. The troubles of the day and night were forgotten, as sunlight dries the rain. Kit was a lover. "How is the mistress, Ben?" he asked. "Oh, her temper’s keen and trim. Mistress Grant ails naught. I suppose Marston’s lost and won? Well, it had to be, I reckon. Who brought the news to Ripley, think ye?" "I couldn’t guess, you old fool." "Oh, may be old—but not so much of a fool, maybe. He’s in yonder, closeted wi’ Lady Ingilby in the parlour. I kenned him at first sight by the lap of his ugly jaw. Come hitherto on the tips of your toes, Master Christopher." The parlour door stood open, and within Kit saw a scene of such amazing oddity that he did not know whether he watched tragedy or comedy in the doing. The hearth was red with crackling logs. At the far end of the table sat Lady Ingilby, a cocked pistol lying close to her right hand; seated opposite her was a thick bulk of a man, with a rusty bandage tied round his neck; between them were four candles, burning with a tranquil flame. "So you come, Mr. Cromwell, to quarter yourself here?" Lady Ingilby was saving. "I do, madam." "You come alone, knowing we are a house of women and of wounded men? Oh, the courage of you! And even our wounded have left us—not one of them so crippled but the news of Rupert’s coming spurred him on to Marston." "The news of Rupert’s going will comfort them, maybe," growled Cromwell. "He thrashed you handsomely. Oh, we have the news! First, a runner came, telling how Lord Fairfax and the leader of the Ironsides had left the field." Cromwell’s quick temper took fire. "You claim a woman’s privilege—— "No, my pistol’s. We talk as man to man. I say that we have the news. And then a second runner came and told us Leslie’s Scots had won the battle. And we sorrowed, but not as if it had been you who claimed the victory." The man was dead weary; but her scorn, quiet and assured, roused him. "Am I so hated, then, by your side of this quarrel?" "Hated? That is a little word." "Good! Any wayside fool can be loved—it takes a man to earn hatred." "A man of sorts—granted. You will tell me, Mr. Cromwell, what your purpose was in coming to this house. My husband may be lying dead on Marston Field. Perhaps you came, in courtesy, to distract my grief."