Pansy was early astir next morning, and moved among the servants of the Castle with an aloofness that enraged the women, with a shy, upward glance of her Puritan eyes that enthralled the men. She was demure and gentle; and when a lad came into the yard with his milking-cans, and said that there had been a bonnie fight in the village overnight, Pansy asked him how it had fared with Master Christopher. "Oh, he?" said the lad, his eyes big and round at sight of her. "He was ready to die last night; but he’s thought better of it, so they say." Pansy did not take the news to her mistress, whose moods were not to be reckoned with these days, but to the lady of the house. Already she had learned, with her quick instinct for character, that Lady Ingilby and she had much in common. "The Riding Metcalfs are in Ripley, by your leave," she said, with downcast eyes. "I’m vastly glad to hear it. Miss Grant has told me of their loyalty. Well?" "Master Christopher lies wounded in the tavern—he that carried the message so well. It seems a shame that he should stay there with only men to nurse him." "Ah, Master Christopher! I’ve heard of him, Why do you bring the news to me, girl, instead of to your mistress?" "Because, my lady, she’s deep in love with him, and does not know it. I’d as lief meet a she-wolf in the open as talk of him to the mistress." The other laughed whole-heartedly. It was the first real laugh she had found since her husband left her for the wars. "You’ve a head on your shoulders, child, and a face rather too pretty for the snares of this world. I thank you for the news." An hour later Lady Ingilby went out, alone and on foot, into Ripley street. There was a press of Metcalfs about the roadway—brawny men who had slept beside their horses wherever they could find room about the fields, and who had gathered for the next day’s call to action. "Is the Squire of Nappa here?" asked Lady Ingilby. "He’s indoors," said Michael, with his graceless ease of bearing, "tending Christopher, the darling of our company." "Go in and tell him that Lady Ingilby commands." When the Squire came out, a little dizzy with his vigil, and altogether glad that Kit had so far slept off his weakness as to ask for breakfast, he saw a lady with a high, patrician nose and keen, grey eyes, who smiled at him. "Sir, I come to inspect your company. In my husband’s absence I undertake his duties." "Madam," he answered with rough grace, "my men are honoured. The King may have better soldiers, but has he six-score to set side by side with mine for height and girth?" He bade his men get to horse—as many of them as the street afforded room for—and marshalled them briskly into line. Lady Ingilby was astounded by the discipline they showed. It was as if their leader scarcely needed to give an order; their readiness seemed to go with the command, as if one brain guided the whole company.