"Fie, sir, to wince at a woman’s touch! I must find Joan for you. Ah, there! you’ve taken wounds, the two of you. It is no time for jesting. The Squire told me you were galloping in search of Rupert." "So we are," said Christopher. "This is just a check in our stride." "As it happens, you were wise to draw rein. A messenger came in an hour ago. The Prince is not in Lancashire, as we had hoped. He is still in Oxford—I can confirm your news on that head—lighting small jealousies and worries. Rupert, a man to his finger-tips, is fighting indoor worries, as if he were a household drudge. The pity of it, gentlemen!" It was easy to understand how this woman had been a magnet who drew good Cavaliers to Ripley. Heart and soul, she was for the King. The fire leaped out to warm all true soldiers of his Majesty, to consume all half-way men. She stood there now, her eyes full of wonder and dismay that they could keep Rupert yonder in Oxford when England was listening for the thunder of his cavalry. Joan Grant had not heard the incoming of the Metcalfs. She had been ill and shaken, after a vivid dream that had wakened her last night, and changed sleep to purgatory. And now, weary of herself, prisoned by the stifled air indoors, she came through the Castle gate. There might be battle in the open, as there had been earlier in the day; but at least there would be fresh air. Michael saw her step into the sunlight, and he gave no sign that his heart was beating furiously. Deep under his levity was the knowledge that his life from this moment forward was to be settled by the direction of a single glance. Joan halted, seeing the press of men that filled the street. Then, among the many faces, she saw two only—Michael’s and his brother’s. And then, because all reticence had left her, she went straight to Christopher’s side. "Sir, you are wounded," she said, simple as any cottage-maid. For the rest of the day Michael was obsessed by gaiety. Whenever the Squire began to talk of Rupert, to map out their route to Oxford, Michael interposed some senseless jest that set the round-table conference in a roar. "Best go groom the donkey," snapped the Squire at last. "If ever the Prince gets York’s message, it will be Kit who takes it." "Kit has the better head. By your leave, sir, I’ll withdraw." "No, I was hasty. Stay, Michael, but keep your lightness under." That night, when the Castle gate was closed, and few lights showed about the windows, Christopher met Joan Grant on the stairway. He was tired of wounds that nagged him, and he needed bed. She was intent on drowning sleeplessness among the old tomes in the library—a volume of sermons would serve best, she thought.