"I came because Lord Fairfax bade me," said Cromwell bluntly. "We have no courtesy in Rutland, as you know. Mere folly must have bidden me leave my men outside, lest they intruded on you over-roughly." "How many of them did Rupert leave you for a guard?" She was aware of an unexpected courtesy in the man’s voice. It seemed no more than smooth hypocrisy. "A few within call. They are not gentle." "Nor I. As man to man—I stand for the husband who may return or may not—we are here, we two. You have a body of surprising strength, but it is I who hold the pistol. Believe me, Mr. Cromwell, I have learned your proverb well; I trust in Providence and keep my powder dry." Christopher, watching them from the dusk of the passage, turned away. It did not seem that Lady Ingilby needed him. Yet he turned for a last glance—saw Cromwell’s head fall prone on his hands. Weariness had captured him at length. The mistress of Ripley sat with upright carriage, seeing dream-pictures in the glowing fire of logs; and some were nightmares, but a silver thread ran through them—the knowledge that, whether he lived or lay dead, she had her husband’s love. "She bested him, and proper," chuckled Ben Waddilove. "When he came in, he looked like a man who might well go to sleep for good and all. We’ll hope as much—and I was ever a prayerful man, as men go." At the turn of the passage, where a lamp was smoking evilly, Kit saw a ghost come with unsteady step to meet him—a comely ghost, in white, fleecy draperies, a ghost that carried a sputtering candle. After Marston, and the carnage, and the desolate, long journey from the Moor to Ripley here, Christopher was ripe to fancy all beauty an illusion. It was only when he saw the red-brown hair, falling disordered about the whiteness of her gown, that his eyes grew clear. "So you have come?" asked Joan Grant. "I did not summon you." "Is that true, Joan?" She would not meet his glance. "Why should I summon you?" "Oh, that’s for you to know. As we lay in the bean-field—the Prince, and father and I—you came and whispered." "I travelled far, then, and must have galloped home at speed." Old Waddilove, who knew his world, moved down the passage noisily. "For my part," he said, talking to himself, and thinking he only murmured, "I allus said like mun wed like, choose what pranks come between. They’re fratching already, and that’s a good sign. A varry good sign. There was niver two folks fit for wedlock till they’ve learned how to fratch. It clears their heads o’ whimsies." The draughty passage seemed full of Ben’s philosophy. They could hear nothing else, except the steady swish of thunder-rain outside. And Joan laughed, because she could not help it. There was no concealment then. Laughter opens more doors than the high gravity that lover-folk affect. "My dear, you know that you came," said Kit.