With a laugh and a light farewell, Kit reined about and spurred his horse. When he came to the top of the hill overlooking the wonderful, quiet sweep of river that rocked despoiled Bolton Priory into dreams of yester-year, he found his kinsmen waiting on the rise. "What news, Kit?" asked the Squire. "Sir, it will be butchery," said the lad, stirred by generous pity. "There’s a big company of them, all on foot, and I—have led them into ambush." Squire Metcalf snarled at his baby-boy. "The King will be well rid of his enemies. Men do not fight, Kit, on milk-and-water fancies." A laugh went up from the Metcalfs—a laugh that was not easy for any lad to bear. "I’ve given my message, sir. Put me in the front of the hazard, if you doubt me." The Squire had one of his sharp repentances. This son of his had shamed him, and for a moment he strove with the hot temper that was the inheritance of all the Metcalf breed. "You shall lead us, Kit," he said at last. The time seemed long in passing before the three hundred men of Fairfax’s came marching at a stubborn pace into the hollow down below. Then, with a roar of "A Mecca for the King!" Christopher was down among them with his kinsmen. When all was done, there was nothing left of the three hundred except a press of fugitives, some prisoners, and many bodies scattered on the highroad. The garrison at Skipton might sleep well to-night, so far as recruits to the besieging forces went. It was the prisoners who troubled the Squire of Nappa. His view of war had been that it was a downright affair of enemies who were killed or who escaped. He glanced at the fifty captives his men had taken, massed together in a sullen company, and was perplexed. His roving troop of horse could not be burdened with such a dead weight of footmen. The garrison at Skipton Castle would not welcome them, for there were mouths enough to feed there already. "What shall I do with them, lads?" he asked, riding apart with his men. Michael Metcalf, a raking, black-haired fellow, laughed carelessly. "Best take powder and pistols from them and turn ’em adrift like sheep. They’ll bleat to little purpose, sir, without their weapons." The Squire nodded. "Thou’rt not noted for great strength of head, Michael, save so far as taking blows goes, but that was sage advice." The Metcalfs, trusting first to their pikes, and afterwards—the gentry-sort among them—to their swords, were disposed to look askance at the pistols as tools of slight account, until Michael again found wisdom. King’s men, he said, might find a use for weapons the enemy found serviceable.