Lady Ingilby reined in—an easy matter with the pensioner that carried her. "In these evil modern times, are there still so many of the elder breed? One here and there I could understand, but not six-score of you." "There are fewer now. We lost a few at Bolton, and Marston Moor was worse. Those who are left will come in. Their word is pledged." The spaciousness of summer on the hills returned to Lady Ingilby. Siege, and hardship, and the red fight at Marston went by. Here was a man who had fought, lost blood and kindred to the cause—a man simple, exact to the promise made. "I am glad of your escort, after all," she said. "You were breeked in the olden time, I think." "What is our route?" asked Christopher by and by. "To Marston. If my husband is abroad, well. If he’s dead or dying, he may need me." It seemed to Kit, through all the perils of the road, through the instant dangers that beset them from the thievish folk who hang upon the skirts of war, that a little, silver light went on ahead, guarding their passage. But he was country-born and fanciful. At Ripley, Michael the careless went indoors and found the old man-servant fidgeting about the hall. "Well, Waddilove," he said, throwing himself on the long-settle, and holding his hands to the fire-blaze, "it seems long since I knew you as body-servant to Sir Peter Grant in Yoredale. I’ve fought and marched, and had my moments—ay, Ben, moments of sheer rapture when we charged—and now I come from Marston, and all’s ended, save a thirst that will drink your cellars dry before I slake it." Waddilove did not know "Maister Michael" in this mood of weariness. "Ye used to be allus so light-hearted, come shine or storm," he muttered. "That is the worst of a high reputation. One falls to earth, old sinner. I’ve no jest, no hope, nothing but this amazing thirst. If there’s wine left in the Castle, bring it." Ben was literal in interpretation of an order. When he returned, he brought two bottles of Madeira and a rummer-glass. "Oh, good!" said Michael, with something of his old laugh. "Fire and wine—I need them." He kicked the logs into a blaze. "It seems odd to need warmth, with midsummer scarce past, but I’ve brought a great coldness from the Moor. Gentlemen of the King’s—men who should be living for him—are lying where they fell. There was no room for a horse’s hoofs; one had to trample the loyal dead. Wine, Ben! Pour me a brimmer for forgetfulness." And now Waddilove understood that this gay wastrel of the Metcalfs was on the edge of sickness—not of the body only, or the mind, but of the two. In his eyes there was a fever and a dread. Not knowing what to do—whether wine were friend or adversary—he obeyed the order. Michael drained the glass in one long, satisfying gulp. "One can buy peace so easily—at a price," he said. "Fill again for me, Daniel, and we’ll drink confusion to Noll Cromwell."