Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that, through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back along the years—going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers for him he thought forgotten long since. As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster, stark naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled in his weakness. "Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry, fevered eyes. "Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We’ve won, my laddie." "Then unfasten this bracelet from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools—the time’s short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for the King." And with that there came a rattle in his throat. And he crossed himself with a feeble forefinger. "Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying." Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and found Lady Ingilby again. "Does he lie there?" she asked sharply. "I did not see him," answered Kit. "I am almost—almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they’ll be needing us at Ripley." *CHAPTER XX.* *THE HOMELESS DAYS.* Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the King’s cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way. York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged his shoulders. "It’s a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of York—that is all." Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?" A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my faith that weakens—it is just that I am human, and my courage fails." None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men’s needs, had learned what the Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword and pike.