In the harsh middle of the conflict, the Squire aimed a blow at the foremost of the Roundheads who rode at him. His pike dinted the man’s body-armour, and the haft snapped in two. Little Blake rode forward to his aid, knowing it was useless; and, with a brutish laugh, the Roundhead swung his sword up. And then, out of the yellow murk of the sky, a friend rode down to the Squire’s aid—rode faster than even Blake had done on the maddest of his escapades. Kit, unpressed for the moment after killing his immediate adversary, saw a blue fork of flame touch the uplifted sword and run down its length. The Roundhead’s arm fell like a stone dropped from a great height, and lightning played about horse and rider till both seemed on fire. They dropped where they stood, and lay there; and for a moment no man stirred. It was as if God’s hand was heavy on them all. The Squire was the first to recover. "D’ye need any further battle, ye robbers of the dead?" he asked. Without further parley they broke and fled. Panic was among them, and many who had been honest once in the grim faith they held saw wrath and judgment in this intervention. The Metcalfs were hot for pursuit, but their leader checked them. "Nay, lads. Leave the devil to follow his own. For our part, we’re pledged to get to Norton Conyers as soon as may be." His kinsmen grumbled at the moment; but afterwards they recalled how Rupert, by the same kind of pursuit, had lost Marston Field, and they began to understand how wise their headstrong leader was. The sun was setting in a red mist—of rain to come—when they reached Norton Conyers; and an hour later the Governor of Knaresborough rode in with the mixed company he guarded. The men of his own garrison, the women-folk of Knaresborough and Ripley, odds and ends of camp followers, made up a band of Royalists tattered enough for the dourest Puritan’s approval. "Where is li’le Elizabeth?" asked Michael plaintively. "For my sins, I forgot her when the Squire told us we were hunting the foxes who raided Wilstrop Wood." "Who is Elizabeth?" snapped the Governor, in no good temper. "Oh, a lady to her hoof-tips, sir—loyal, debonair, a bairn in your hands when she loves you, and a devil to intruders." He turned, with the smile that brimmed out and over his Irish mouth. "Meccas all, the Governor asks who Elizabeth is. They knew in Oxford, and praised her grace of bearing." A lusty braying sounded through the lessening thunder-claps, and a roar of laughter came from Michael’s kinsmen. "Twins are never far apart, if they can help it," said Christopher. "It is daft to worry about Elizabeth, so long as Michael’s safe."