Lady Ingilby’s face grew harder as she listened to the message, but still her unconquerable humour stayed with her. "So they know me as ’that termagant.’ Good! I’m making this house a training-school for Cavaliers. I stay at home while my husband rides for the King; but I, too, am riding. Joan, the suspense would kill me if I had no work to do. Sometimes he sends word that he is hale and busy down in Oxfordshire, and always he calls me sweetheart once or twice in these ill-written, hasty letters. At my age, child, to be sweetheart to any man!" Something of the spoiled days slipped away from Joan as she breathed this ampler air. The aunt who had been a little cold, austere, in bygone years was showing her true self. "What of your mad neighbour?" asked Lady Ingilby, repenting of her softer mood. "You did not leave him on the bench, surely, tied hand and foot? You cut the ropes?" "The villagers would not allow it—and, indeed, why should I regret? He was rough with me—cold and uncivil." "There, child! Never wave the red flag in your cheeks. Folk see it, like a beacon fire. You’re in love with the madman. No denial, by your leave. I’m old and you are young, and I know my world." "He is uncouth and rude. I hate him, aunt." "That proves it to the hilt. I’ll send out a rescue-party. Men who have no care for their own lives are precious these days." "You have no need," said Miss Grant. "I forgave him for his roughness." "Tut, child! Forgiveness won’t untie his hands." "But I sent word, too, to his kinsmen, who are near." "So!" laughed Lady Ingilby. "How fierce your loathing burns, you babe just come from the nursery!" On the moor guarded by the High Cross the Squire of Nappa was pacing lip and down, halting now and then to watch his kinsfolk as they slept beside their horses. He envied them their slumber, would have been glad to share it after the turmoil of the last two days, but, under all casual temptation to lie down and sleep, he knew that he was glad to be awake—awake, with the free sky overhead and the knowledge that so many Metcalfs needed him. "We ought to do well for the King," was his constant thought. "If we fail, ’twill not be for lack of wakefulness on my part." As dusk went down the hill, and on the edge of dark a big moon strode above the moor’s rim, he heard the faint sound of hoofs. None but ears sharpened by a country life could have caught the sound; but the Squire was already handling his pike. As the rider drew nearer, his big horse scattering stones from the steep drift of shale, Metcalf gripped the shaft of his weapon and swung it gently to and fro. The moon’s light was clear now, and into the mellow gold of it the horseman rode. "Who goes there?" roared the Squire, lifting his pike. It was a quavering voice that answered. "Be ye going to fight Ben Waddilove? I’m old and home-weary, and we were lads together."