The cry was to sing like a northern gale through the Yorkshire highlands; and now the running uproar of it drifted up the Raikes as they came to the track that led right-handed down to Embsay village. Down the pasture-lands they went, and through the small, grey township, and forward on the road to Bolton Abbey. Half between Bolton and Long Addingham they met a yeoman jogging forward at a tranquil trot. "Why, Squire Metcalf, it’s a twelve-month and a day since we set eyes on each other," he said, reining up. "Are you riding for Otley market?" "Ay," said Metcalf, with a dalesman’s wariness. "Is there aught stirring there, Demaine?" "Nay, nowt so much—not enough to bring all your Nappa men with you, Squire. Maybe it’s men you’re seeking, instead of ewes and cattle." "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t." "Well, if it’s men you’re seeking, you’ll find ’em. I overtook three hundred of Fairfax’s soldiery just setting out from Otley." "Oh, you did? Were they horsed?" "No, they were going at a sharp marching pace. They were a likely set o’ lads to look at—thick in the beam, but varry dour of face. I take no sides myself in this business of King and Parliament. I only say, Squire, that a nod’s as good as a wink in troubled times." "Thanks, Demaine," said the Squire of Nappa. "Nay, no need. Neighbour knows neighbour, and good day to ye." The whole intimacy of the dales was in that brief greeting—the freemasonry that ran like quicksilver in between the well-laid plans of ambitious generals. Fairfax had sent three hundred of his men to strengthen Lambert’s attack on Skipton Castle. A country squire and a yeoman met on the highway and talked a while, and there was an ambush in the making. "Hi, Christopher!" said the Squire, beckoning the lad to his side. "Ride forward on the Otley road till you see those men of Fairfax’s. Then turn about and gallop." Kit saluted gravely, as he or any Metcalf of them would have saluted if the chief bade them ride through the Fiery Gate. His wounds smarted as he rode for Otley, and he relished the keen pain. He was young, with his eyes to the stars, and suffering for the King’s sake was haloed by romance. He went through Ilkley. Its straw-thatched cottages clustered round the brown stream of Wharfe; and, half a mile beyond, he saw a company of men on foot marching with quick and limber step. He forgot his wounds. With a boy’s careless devilry, he galloped to meet them and reined up within twenty paces. "Are you my Lord Fairfax’s men?" he asked. "If so you’re needed at Skipton. Put your best foot forward." "We’re Lord Fairfax’s men, sir," said the officer in command. "Do you come from Captain Lambert?" "From Skipton—yes, I come from Skipton. There’s need for haste."