When they neared the hill that was the last of their climb, up and over into Beamsley, they saw the slim figure of a woman, tall against the sky; and, as they came nearer still, Michael—whose sight was like a hawk’s—told them that Miss Bingham was waiting there to bring them back. "Kind and sonsy, she," laughed one of the late garrison at Knaresborough. "You will unsay that, sir," said Christopher. "There’s nothing to unsay. Kind and sonsy—daft hot-head, you might say that of your own mother." "In a different tone. You will unsay it." "And why? We Knaresborough men seldom unsay anything, until our windpipes are cut clean in two." "There’s for a good Irishman!" said Michael, putting his bulk between the combatants. "He’ll talk, says he, when his windpipe is in two. They could not better that in Donegal." So the quarrel was blown abroad by the laughter of their fellows; but Michael, as they jogged up the hill, grew dour and silent. Kit’s sudden heat astonished him. He had not guessed that the lad’s regard for Miss Bingham went deeper than the splash of a pebble in a summer’s pool. When they reached the hill-top, a fresh surprise awaited him. Miss Bingham was standing there, with pale, drawn face; and her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company, and disdained the rest. [Illustration: "Her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company, and disdained the rest."] Michael could not believe it. Her easy handling of the world she knew by heart—the levity that cloaked all feeling—were gone. She put a hand on Kit’s bridle-arm as he rode up, and forgot, it seemed, that many folk were looking on. "You are wounded. No? Then how fares it out at Skipton?" The old Squire had seen the drift of things with an eye as keen as Michael’s; and in his present mood he was intolerant of women and all gentler matters. "It has sped bonnily," he snapped. "Skipton has gone down-stream with the flood, Miss Bingham, and there’s no more to do, save tend women’s vapours and feed Michael’s jackass." She smiled pleasantly at this man in evil mood. "Sir, that is not like you. If your courtesy towards women has gone, too, then chivalry is ended for all time." The Metcalfs waited for the Squire’s rejoinder. None guessed how the rebuke would take him; but all knew how deep he was wading in the chill bog of adversity. They saw him lift his head in fury, saw him relent with hardship. "Miss Bingham," he said, "there was a sorrow and a madness at my heart. You are right. If I forget courtesy toward women, I forget the wife who bred tall sons for me in Yoredale." He went apart that night and took counsel of his God, on the high lands where the birds seemed to rise for matins almost as soon as evensong was ended. He came down again for early breakfast in the woodland camp, with all the grace of youth about him, in high spirits, ready for the day’s surprises. *CHAPTER XXIII.*