It was no usual comradeship that held between the Royalists who gathered in one company after Marston Moor was lost to the King. They travelled through vile roads—roads broken up by incessant rains—they camped wherever they found a patch of drier ground for the night’s sleep. But never for a moment did they lose the glamour that attached to the person of King Charles. Like a beacon-light, the thought of the half-vanquished Stuart went steadily in front of them. Their strength lay in this—that, whether death or life arrived, they knew the venture well worth while. The life had a strange savour of its own. The Nappa Squire, the late Governor of Knaresborough and his officers, Lady Ingilby—all had known the weight of harsh responsibility so long as the King’s cause was alive in the North. The cause was dead now. There was no need to be at strain, sleeping or waking, with the sense that it rested with each of them to keep the monarchy secure. There was asked of them only a haphazard and stimulating warfare, of the sort dear to all hillmen. Scarborough Castle fell, and when the news was brought—they were dining at the moment in a wooded dell between Beamsley and Langbar—the Governor lifted his hat with pleasant gravity. "God rest the gentlemen of Scarborough. They have earned their holiday, as we have." Michael was busy with the stew-pot, hanging gipsy-wise on three sticks above a fire of gorse and fir-cones. "It’s hey for Skipton-in-Craven," he said with a cheery smile. "I aye liked the comely town, and now the King will know that she was the last in all the North to stand for him." "Maybe Skipton has fallen, too, by this time," chided the Squire. "You were always one for dreams, Michael." Michael was silent till the meal was ended. Then he mowed a swath of thistles with his sword, and brought the spoil to Elizabeth, tethered to a neighbouring tree. She brayed at him with extreme tenderness. "Now that we’re well victualled, friends," he said lazily, "who comes with me to hear how it fares with Skipton?" The Governor did not like the venture—the hazard of it seemed too great—but Squire Metcalf did. "How d’ye hold together at all, Michael?" roared the Squire. "So much folly and such common sense to one man’s body—it must be a civil war within yourself." Michael glanced at Joan Grant with an instinct of which he repented instantly. "It is, sir. Since I was born into this unhappy world, there has been civil war inside me. I need an outlet now." "You shall have it, lad." "And you call this common sense?" asked the Governor, with good-tempered irony. "Ay, of the Yoredale sort. A blow or two in Skipton High Street—who knows what heart it might give the garrison?" "I must remind you that we have women-folk to guard, and our wounded." "But, sir, this is a Metcalf riding, all like the olden time. We never meant your Knaresborough men to share it."