Just that. He had found the one word that is magical to strong men. They answered him with a rousing shout, and drove up against the King’s men. For a moment even the Nappa riders gave back; but the recoil seemed only to help them to a fiercer onset. They had both Cavalier speed and Roundhead weight, these Metcalf men and horses; and Sir John Mallory, fighting beside them for mastery of the High Street, was aware that Yoredale had given the King a finer troop of horse than even Rupert could command. Across the thick of it Mallory caught Lambert’s glance, and an odd smile played about their lips. The same thought came to both between the hurry of the fight. Not long ago they had dined together, had talked of the winter’s hunting soon to come, had smoked their pipes in amity. Now each was thanking God that the shifting issues of the battle did not bring them sword to sword; for civil war is always a disastrous and a muddling enterprise. The glance, and the memories that went to its making, were over in a second. It was a forward plunge again of King’s men meeting Roundheads, hard to drive. And suddenly there rose a cry keen as winter in the uplands and strong as sun at midsummer. "Now, Metcalfs," roared the Squire of Nappa, "into the standing corn—and God for the King, say I!" Into the standing corn they went, and it was open flight now down the length of Skipton Street. Time after time Lambert strove to rally his men, using oaths that had not been taught him by the Quakers, but the retreat swept him down, carrying him with it. A great gentleman, whichever side he took in this fierce quarrel, was learning for the first time the sickness of defeat. The Nappa men were only turned from pursuing the enemy into the teeth of the guns on Cock Hill by Mallory, who rode forward sharply, reined about and fronted them. "Gentlemen of Yoredale," he said, quiet and persuasive, "the King does not command you to be blown to bits up yonder. He has other need of you." "I like to sickle the whole field once I make a start," said Squire Metcalf. "Ay, but there’s a biggish field in front of you. You’ll need to sleep between-whiles, Squire." When they turned to ride up the High Street again, the Squire, among all this muddle of wounded Metcalfs, and horses that were white and crimson now, saw only a little man slipping from the saddle of a little mare. He rode up in time to ease his fall, and afterwards felt the man’s wounds gently, as a woman might. And the tears were in his eyes. "It’s Blake, the messenger, and God knows I’m sorry. He fought like the biggest rogue that ever was breeked at Nappa." "His soul’s too big for his strength," said Mallory, with his unalterable common sense. "He’ll just have to lie by for a while." "There’s naught much amiss, save loss o’ blood, may be. We’ll get him to the Castle gate, and then—why we’ll just ride up the Raikes and spike those cannon lying in the ditch."