"I have urgent news for you," he said, recovering from confusion. "Not so urgent but a kerchief could put it out of mind. But come indoors, lest a snowstorm of such favours buries you. You’ll have many such storms, I hazard—you, with your big laugh and your air of must-be-obeyed." When they had come into the oak-parlour, and Lady Ingilby had seen that the door was close-shut against eavesdroppers, Kit gave his message. "A man rode in an hour ago from York. The garrison there is near to famine. They’re besieged by three armies—Lord Fairfax at Walmgate Bar, my Lord Manchester at Bootham Bar, and the Scots at Micklegate. My father sends me with the message, and asks if you can spare the Riding Metcalfs for a gallop." "Six-score to meet three armies?" "If luck goes that way." She stood away from him, looking him up and down. "My husband is of your good breed, sir. I gave him to the King, so I must spare my six-foot Metcalfs to the cause." Joan Grant came into the parlour. Kit, seeing the filtered sunlight soft about her beauty, thought that the world’s prime miracle of womanhood, a thing dainty, far-away, had stepped into the room. "Can I share your secrets?" she asked diffidently. "I’ve none," said Kit, with a sudden laugh. "I carry your kerchief, Joan—at least, my hat does, whenever I wear it in the open, for men to see." Again she was aware of some new self-reliance, some ease of speech and carriage that had been absent in the Yoredale days. A few months of peril had accomplished this; she asked herself, with a queer stab of jealousy, what a year of soldiery would do. "I dropped the kerchief by chance, sir," she said coldly. "You will return it." "By and by, when it has been through other chance and mischance. Lady Ingilby, you shall be judge between us. Is the kerchief mine?" The older woman laughed. "Yours—when you’ve proved your right to wear it. Meanwhile, it is a loan." "Women always forsake each other at the pinch," said Joan, with a gust of temper. "To be sure, girl. Our men-folk are so often right, in spite of their absurdities. This venture toward York, Mr. Metcalf? You propose to ride against three armies—a hundred and twenty of you?" "No, by your leave. We hope to get near the city in one company, and then decide. If York is leaguered by regiments, there’ll be an outer rim of Metcalfs, waiting their chance of capturing news going in or coming out." "Good! I begin to see how strong you are, you clan of Metcalfs. You are one, or two, or six-score, as need asks. I think you are well advised to go to York." Joan Grant turned from the window. Her aloofness and disdain were gone. "Would you not stay to guard our wounded here?" she asked. The mellow sunlight was busy in her hair. Her voice was low and pleading. Kit was dizzied by temptation. And Lady Ingilby looked on, wondering how this man would take the baptism.