"I loathe the tongue-tied folk! Battle, and audience with the King, and wayfaring from Yoredale down to Oxford—have they left you mute?" "Less talkative," he agreed; "I’ve seen men die." For a moment she lost her petulance. "You are older, graver, more likeable. And yet I—I like you less. There was no need—surely there was no need to—to let others tell me of the ferry-steps at Knaresborough." "The ferry-steps?" "So you’ve forgotten that poor maid as well. I pity Miss Bingham now. Why do women hate each other so? Instead, they should go into some Sisterhood of Pity, hidden away from men." "They should," assented Christopher; "but few of them do, ’twould seem." "And now you laugh at me. Oh, I have heard it all! How pleasantly Nidd River runs past the ferry-steps. She is beautiful, they tell me." "I have no judgment in these matters. Ask Michael—he was there with me in Knaresborough." Michael had chanced to overtake them at the moment, Elizabeth following him like a dog. "Nidd River—yes, she is beautiful." "It was Miss Bingham we talked of. I—oh! I have heard such wonderful tales of her. She glamours men, they say." Michael, for a breathing-space or two, was silent. Then he recaptured the easy-going air that had served as a mask in harder times than this. "She glamoured me, Miss Grant—on my faith, she did—whenever Kit would leave her side. The kindest eyes that ever peeped from behind a lattice." "Miss Bingham seems to be prodigal of the gifts that heaven has given her." "True charity, believe me—to spend what one has, and spend it royally." "She seems, indeed, to be a very perfect hoyden. Oh, I am weary! Marston Moor is lost. Ripley is lost. Are we going to ride for ever along dreary roads?" "Three of us go on foot—Kit the baby, Elizabeth and I. We have no grumbles." She turned on him like a whirlwind. "If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it." [Illustration: "’If the end of the world came—here and now—you would make a jest of it.’"] "’Twould sweeten the end, at any rate. There’s Irish blood in me, I tell you." From ahead there sounded a sharp cry of command. "Hi, Meccas, all! The enemy’s in front." War had lessened the ranks of the Metcalfs, but not their discipline. Michael and his brother clutched each a horse’s bridle, after helping the women to alight, and sprang to the saddle. Even Elizabeth shambled forward to take her share of hazard, and Joan found herself alone. And the gist of her thoughts was that she hated Kit, and was afraid that he would die. She watched the Metcalfs spur forward, then slacken pace as they neared the big company coming round the bend of the road. The old Squire’s voice rang down-wind to her. "King’s men, like ourselves? Ay, I see the fashion of you. And where may you be from, gentles?" "I’m the late Governor of Knaresborough, at your service." "And I’m the Squire of Nappa, with all that the Cropheads have left of my Riding Metcalfs."