When they came to Wilstrop Wood—Lady Ingilby staying on the outskirts with three dour Scotsmen as a guard of honour—the wind was rustling through the trees. And from the ground there was a harsher rustle—the stir and unrest of men who could not die just yet, however they longed for the prison-gate of flesh to open. The red-gold sunlight filtered through the cobwebs spun from tree to tree of Wilstrop Wood. And even Murray, who counted himself hard-bitten, stood aghast at what he saw. The underwood was white with bodies of the slain. A great wrath and pity brought Kit’s temper to a sudden heat. "Captain Murray," he said, "these dead have been robbed of all that hides their nakedness. I say it is a foul deed. Better have lost the fight than—than this." "You will tell it to the world?" stammered Murray. "Yes, if I win free of this. It shall be blazoned through the North, till there’s none but knows of it." Murray halted irresolute. If the Scotsman had been of grosser make, Kit would have joined the company of King’s men who slept in Wilstrop Wood. It was easy, with the men he had at call, to silence this hot-headed youngster. "That is your resolve?" he asked slowly. "D’ye doubt it? Captain Murray, it is a loathsome business enough to pick the pockets of the dead, but to take clothes and all——" "The Scots had no hand in it, I tell ye. Our lads hae over-muckle care for the dead of either side. But I aye mistrusted those Psalm-singing rogues. Will ye take it at that?" "There’s a sickness in the middle of me," said Christopher, with tired simplicity. "What is your business with me here in Wilstrop Wood?" Murray conquered his first impulse to put Kit’s tongue out of harm’s way once for all. "As I told you, sir, General Leslie’s heart is tender as a maudlin woman’s—now the battle is won, and his own wounds patched up—and needs must that you identify the dead." Christopher, who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, was a true Dalesman. By letting the world see the froth and bubble of the upper waters, he hid the deeper pools. As they went through the wood, the sunlight filtering through on ground for ever to be haunted, he knew, by the whiteness of their skins, that the greater part of the fallen were gentry of the King’s. Instinct, quick to help a man, told him it was unwise to admit the loss of so many officers to the cause, though he knew many faces there—faces of men who had shared fight or bivouac with him somewhere between this and Oxford. "They must rest where they lie, for all the help I can give you," he said impassively, "and may God have mercy on their souls." "Sir, I wonder at your calm," snapped Murray; "but now I understand. All you Papists have that quiet air of ease." "Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."