"Neither. I’ve ridden too many evil roads to remember bitterness. It is simply that I’m tired and filled with wonder. Tell me why Oxford and the nightingales opened an old wound afresh." "It goes back to Eve’s days, I think," murmured Miss Bingham. Demureness, coquetry, the hint of tears and laughter in her eyes—all should have disarmed Blake. "Ay, find other shoulders for the blame," he said impassively. "As Adam did." Again the easy insolence failed her at need. She was aware that no nimbleness of tongue could help her now. Blake stood there like some judge whose bias against the prisoner at the bar was hardening. "After all, you owe me gratitude," she went on hurriedly. "If it had not been that I’m fickle—oh, I admit as much—you would not stand where you stand now. I remember you so well—gay, easy-going, with a tongue that made one half believe your flattery. And now? You’re Blake the rider—little Blake—Blake who never tires. I see men lift their heads when your name is mentioned, and hear their praise. Did I do so ill at Knaresborough, to set you on the road?" "You broke my heart. If that was to do well—why, my thanks, Miss Bingham." It was then, for the first time, that knowledge came to her, as if a veil were lifted. She saw the years behind. Vanity, pride of conquest, zest in the hunting for hunting’s sake—these had been her luxuries. She had not guessed that the sport might cripple men for life. "Why do you tell me this—you who are so proud and reticent?" "Not for my pleasure," he answered drily. "There’s a lad of the Metcalfs I have a liking for. I would save him from my sort of fate, if that could be." He could not understand the change in her. She was fierce, vindictive. Through the velvet dalliance of her life the claws flashed out. Then, in a moment, she repented. Her voice grew smooth and insolent again. "Oh, Puritan, because you have forgotten how to play, you would put all light-hearted folk in prison. Sir, by your leave, I wait here till one Christopher Metcalf returns from Skipton town. I wish him very well." "Then heaven help him, madam," said Blake, and went down the hill in search of better cheer. The Metcalfs long ago had come to Embsay, and up the further hill that gave them a clear view of Skipton. The long, grey church, the Castle’s sturdy front, the beautiful, wide street, rich in the summer’s greenery that bordered it, lay spread before them in the golden sunlight. The market-square was packed with men, and the hubbub of the crowd came up the rise.