They crossed a strip of barren moor, and came to a hollow where some storm of wind and lightning had long since broken a fir coppice into matchwood. And here, at the edge of the dead trunks and the greening bracken, they found five of their kinsmen hemmed in by fourteen stiff-built rascals who carried pikes. On the outskirts of the battle a donkey was lifting her head in wild appeal. With speed and certainty, Michael and his brother crashed down into the fight. The surprise, the fury of assault, though two horsemen only formed the rescue-party, settled the issue. And in this, had they known it, the Metcalfs were but proving that they had learned amid country peace what Rupert had needed years of soldiery to discover—the worth of a cavalry attack that is swift and tempestuous in the going. "We thought you far on the road to Prince Rupert," said the Squire of Nappa, cleaning his sword-blade on a tuft of grass. "So we should have been, sir, but we happened into Knaresborough. Kit here swooned for love of a lady—on my faith, the daintiest lass from this to Yoredale—and I could not drag him out until—until, you understand, the elder brother stepped in and made havoc of a heart that Kit could only scratch." "Is this true, Christopher?" "As true as most of Michael’s tales. We fell ill of our wounds, sir, that was all." The donkey had ceased braying now, and was rubbing a cool snout against Michael’s hand. "Good lass!" he said. "If it hadn’t been for your gift of song, and my own luck, there’d have been five Metcalfs less to serve His Majesty." The old Squire pondered a while, between wrath and laughter. "That is true," he said, in his big, gusty voice. "I always said there was room in the world, and a welcome, for even the donkey tribe. Kit, you look lean and harassed. Tell us what happened yonder in Knaresborough." Kit told them, in a brief, soldierly fashion that found gruff approval from the Squire; but Michael, rubbing the donkey’s snout, must needs intrude his levity. "He forgets the better half of the story, sir. When we got inside the Castle, the prettiest eyes seen out of Yoredale smiled at him. And the lad went daft and swooned, as I told you—on my honour, he did—and the lady bound his shoulder-wound for him. A poor nurse, she; it was his heart that needed doctoring." "And it was your head that needed it. She made no mistake there, Michael," said Squire Metcalf drily.