She took the salute with lively satisfaction. "You dwarf our houses, Metcalfs. I never guessed how low the inn roof is. You are all for the King? Good! That was a lusty roar." They faced each other, the cavalry and the slim, straight lady whose husband was at the wars. And the Nappa men answered her laugh; and from this day forward they were comrades, she and they, and she could command them anything. "Undoubtedly prayers are answered, if one prays long enough," she said, in her odd, imperative way. "There’s been a siege of Ripley Castle, a stealthy siege, and I’ve needed men about me." "We are free for your service," said the Squire. "Indeed, we were in fear of idleness, after doing what was asked at Skipton yesterday." "There’s no speed of attack in this venture." She read the man’s need for blows and the gallop, and would not tempt him into a promise rashly given. "You will understand, Mr. Metcalf, that my house is a hospital just now. Whenever a Cavalier takes wounds too hard for him, he drags himself to Ripley. The countrymen all know my mind; and, when they find a lame dog of the King’s, they bring him to my gate. The garrison of my good castle, I tell you frankly, is made up of women and sick men." "But we’re no nurses," protested the Squire, with laughable simplicity. "You’d have six-score other ailing men if you shut us up indoors." Lady Ingilby laughed, for the second time since her husband rode for the King. "We could not house you, sir. If there’s scarce room for you in Ripley’s street, you would overfill the castle. I have other work for you." "In the open?" "Ah, your eagerness! Yes, in the open. Keep our gates safe from without, sir. There are few hale men among the garrison, and these are wearied out with sleeplessness. Prowling companies of Roundheads come this way, giving us no rest. They know Sir William Ingilby is with the King, they know I keep open house here for Cavaliers——" "Bid your household rest," the Squire broke in. "There are six-score of us here—judge for yourself whether we’re big enough to guard you." "Big enough," she assented, with a brisk, friendly nod. "But how to feed your company, sir?" she added, returning to the prose of housewifery. "We feed ourselves," laughed the Squire. "It seemed a fat country as we rode through. Mutton—and corn for our horses—wherever these are, there’s a meal for us." Kit had left his half-finished breakfast at the sound of Lady Ingilby’s voice outside. It was not her quality, or the courage she was showing under hardship, that stirred his pulses. As she turned to go in at the tavern door, saying she must see the wounded man, Christopher himself crossed the threshold. "My faith, sir," she said tartly, "you should be in your bed, by the look of you. You can scarce stand." "Miss Grant is with you?" he asked, a sudden crimson in his cheeks. "Oh, yes. The most wonderful maid that ever came to Ripley—her eyes like stars—she feeds on thistledown."