The Squire of Nappa had called a halt because their horses needed a breathing-space before they put their project into action. More than once, during the ride out, they had laughed at the humour of their plan, though most men would have been thinking of the extreme hazard. They proposed, in fact, to get behind the Roundheads’ position on Cock Hill, to charge them unexpectedly from the rear, and to capture their cannonry by sheer speed of onset. "It will be a tale to set the whole North in a roar," said the Squire. "And the Royalists up hereabout, God knows, have need of laughter these days." "Ay, but look yonder, sir," put in Christopher gravely. The Squire followed the direction of his hand. In the sunlit market-square they saw Mallory, the Governor, ride over the lowered drawbridge. After him came the gentry and the ladies of the garrison, then soldiery on foot; and, last of all, the stable-boys and cooks and scullions, who had ministered for two long years to the needs of those besieged. Mallory was erect and buoyant. Standards waved in the merry breeze, their colours glowing in the sunlight. "What does it mean?" asked Christopher. "It is no sortie; yet they ride with heads up, as if life went very well with them." The old Squire passed a hand across his eyes. Feeling ran deep with him at all times; and now it was as if he looked years ahead and saw the King himself go out in just this fashion, proud, resolute, content with the day’s necessary work. "It means, my lad," he said roughly, "that Skipton-in-Craven has yielded at long last. But she goes out with the full honours of war, and she can boast till the Trump o’ Doom that she was the last in Yorkshire to stand for the King’s Majesty." They rode a little nearer to the town. And now they could see that the crowd thronging the High Street was made up of Parliament men, who moved to one side and the other, clearing a route for the outgoing garrison. They saw Lambert ride forward, salute Sir John Mallory with grave punctilio—heard Mallory’s voice come lightly on the wind, as if he exchanged a jest—and then the long procession passed, with banners flying, and the tale of Skipton’s siege was ended. "Best turn about, Metcalfs," growled the Squire. "We can do nothing here. There’ll be the women wanting us out Beamsley way, and Michael has his donkey to attend to." "True," assented Michael. "All’s gone—Marston, York, Skipton—but Elizabeth is with us still. There’s many a kick left in li’le Elizabeth." So—with laughter, lest they cried—the Metcalf men took route again for Beamsley. And the Squire rode far ahead, with a stormy grief and a sense of utter desolation for companions. Kit, seeing his father’s trouble, was minded to spur forward and help him in his need; but Michael checked him. "He has the black dog on his shoulders. Best leave him to it." "Why, yes. That is the Metcalf way, I had forgotten, Michael."