"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t’other would be glad to be the last to die for His Majesty." The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh. The men were glad to follow his good example. "Your health, Lady Ingilby—your good health," said the Squire. While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud. "Gad, here’s Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider—I saw him bring the Metcalfs into Oxford." Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby, I’ve a message from your husband, for your private ear." A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his message to the public ear." "He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood. There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at York. He bids me tell you he is safe." "Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?" "No, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me." "I—am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my lord’s message?" Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keen youth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I am proud, and—and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline of war. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, if the Metcalfs come." "There never was much ’if’ about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Our word was pledged before ever Marston Fight began." "Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances might have come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have died to a man, as the Whitecoats did—God rest them." The Squire’s bluntness softened. The tenderness that is in the heart of every Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might all have died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained to the goodwife up in Yoredale." And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing why, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining. They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden cross, and over it the words ’For Valour.’ There, gentlemen, I weary you with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses for you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the sentries are ready at their posts."