Michael stood irresolute for a moment, divided, as his way was, between the separate calls of heart and head. And into the midst of his irresolution a guest intruded rudely. There had been a steady cannonading of the town, as reprisal after the sortie, and one among the lumbering iron balls crashed through the wall of the dining-chamber, near the roof, passed forward and brought down a heavy frame—known as a "bread-creel" in the north here—on which oat-cakes were spread out to dry. With fuel scarce, they had learned to make kitchen and dining-chamber one. The cannon-ball buried itself in the masonry beyond. The bread-creel missed Miss Bingham’s pretty head by a foot or so. One end of it struck Kit on the shoulder, reopening a new wound; the other tapped Michael on the skull, and put dreams of Rupert out of mind for many a day. The men at the far end of the hall ran forward. They found Michael lying prone. One cross-piece of the creel was broken, where it had encountered his tough head, and all about the floor was a drift of the brittle oat-cake that had been drying overhead a moment since. "A queer beginning for their ride," said young Phil Amory. Michael opened two devil-may-care eyes between one forgetting and the next. "Life’s like that, my lad. One never knows." They carried him to an inner room, and Miss Bingham watched Amory and another trying to stanch Kit’s wound. "You’re clumsy at the business," she said, putting them aside. With deft hands she fastened a tourniquet above the wound, and dressed it afterwards. Then she brought him wine; and, when a tinge of colour returned to his face, she crossed to the window and stood there, watching the red flare of cannonry that crossed the April sunlight. "My thanks, Miss Bingham," said Kit, following her. "Oh, none are needed! I am a little proud of my nursing skill, learned here in Knaresborough. Believe me, I would have done as much for any trooper." "Still, any trooper would find grace to thank you." Her eyes met his. There was blandishment in them, withdrawal, enmity. Men were a game to her. Spoiled and flattered, accustomed to homage that had never found her heart, she thought men heartless, too, and the game a fair one. "Thanks mean so little. Would you have had me watch you bleed to death? Is there no one in the world who would have missed you?" "I do not know," said Kit, with a thought of Yoredale and the light in Ripley Castle. "Ah, there’s another secret out! She has flouted my dear Puritan." "I will not have that name! There was never a Metcalf yet but stood for the King."