It was not the Governor of Knaresborough who took command. Without pause for thought of precedence, Squire Metcalf lifted his voice. "A Mecca for the King, and bustle about the business, lads!" The road no longer showed like a meeting-place where idle gentry foregathered to pass the time of day. The Governor, with some envy underlying all his admiration, saw the Metcalfs swing into line behind their leader. "Our horses are fresh," explained the Squire over shoulder, with a twinge of punctilio. "Do you follow, sir, and guard the women-folk." "I shall guard them," said the Governor, laughing quietly. Miss Bingham saw Joan watching the dust swirl and eddy in the wake of the Riding Metcalfs, saw that the girl’s face was petulant and wistful. "He did not pause to say good-bye," she said, with gentlest sympathy. "I did not ask him to." "But, indeed, men are fashioned in that mould. I am older than you, child." "So much is granted," said Joan sharply. "And women are fashioned in their mould, too, with feet of velvet and the hidden claws. Yes, I am older. You drew blood there." "Miss Bingham, I am in no mood for petty warfare of our sort. Our men have done enough, and they are riding out again. We women should keep still tongues, I think, and pray for better guidance." "How does one pray? You’re country-bred and I am not." The voice was gentle, but the sideways glance had venom in it. "It comes so easily to you, no doubt—scent of hay, and church bells ringing you across the fields, and perhaps _he_ will meet you at the stile, to share the self-same book—is that what prayer means?" "No," said the Governor, interposing bluntly. "Ask Lady Derby what prayer means—she who has made Lathom House a beacon for all time. Ask Ingilby’s wife, who held Ripley for the King’s wounded—ask Rupert——" "The Prince—is he, too, among the listeners to church bells?" asked Miss Bingham airily. "To be precise, he is. I talked yesterday with one who was at York when Rupert came to raise the siege. The Prince was spent with forced marches, dead-weary, soul and body. He had earned his praise, you would have thought; but, when they cheered him like folk gone mad, he just waited till the uproar ceased, and bared his head. ’The faith that is in me did it, friends, not I,’ he said, and the next moment he laughed, asking for a stoup of wine." "He cared for his body, too, ’twould seem," murmured Miss Bingham. "A soldier does, unless by birth and habit he’s an incorrigible fool. I’ve even less acquaintance than you with prayer; but I’ve seen the fruits of it too often, child, to sneer at it." "To be named child—believe me, sir, it’s incense to me. Miss Grant here was persuading me that I was old enough to be her mother. I was prepared to kneel at the next wayside pool and search there for grey hairs." "Search in twenty years or so—time enough for that. Meanwhile, we have to follow these hot-headed Metcalfs, and discipline begins, Miss Bingham."