They met; and, because the times were full of speed and battle, she was the cottage maid again. All women are when the tempest batters down the frail curtains that hide the gentle from the lowly-born. "Was she very good to see?" she asked, remembering her last night’s vision—it had been more than a dream, she knew. So Kit, a rustic lad in his turn, flushed and asked what she meant. And she set the quibble aside, and told him what her dream was. She pictured Kharesborough—though her waking eyes had never seen the town—spoke of the gun-flare that had crossed the window-panes sometimes, while a girl watched beside his pillow. "I was weak with my wounds," said Kit, not questioning the nearness of this over-world that had intruded into the everyday affairs of siege and battle. "How direct you Metcalfs are! And the next time you are wounded there will be a nurse, and you’ll grow weak again, till your heart is broken in every town that holds a garrison." "I leave that to Michael," he said quietly. All that he had done—for the King, and for the light he had watched so often in her room at Ripley here—went for nothing, so it seemed, because he had blundered once, mistaking dreams for substance. "I thought you were made of better stuff than Michael." "There’s no better stuff than Michael. Ask any Metcalf how he stands in our regard—easy-going when he’s not needed, but an angel on a fiery horse when the brunt of it comes up. He’s worth two of me, Joan." Again Joan was aware that soldiery had taught this youngster much worth the knowing during the past months. He was master of himself, not wayward to the call of any woman. "We’re bidding farewell," she said. "Yes," said Christopher. "To-morrow we set out for Oxford. Do you remember Yoredale? Your heart was at the top of a high tree, you said." "So it is still, sir—a little higher than before." "By an odd chance, so is mine. I chose a neighbouring tree." She was silent for a while, then passed by him and down the stair. He would have called her back if pride had let him. Then he went slowly up to bed, wondering that some freak of temper had bidden him speak at random. For an hour it was doubtful whether tiredness or the fret of his healing wounds would claim the mastery; then sleep had its way. "What have I said?" he muttered, with his last conscious thought. He had said the one right thing, as it happened. Knaresborough had taught him, willy-nilly, that there are more ways than one of winning a spoiled lass for bride. Next day he woke with a sense of freshness and returning vigour. It was pleasant to see the steaming dishes ready for Michael and himself before their riding out, pleasant to take horse and hear the Squire bidding them God-speed, with a sharp injunction to follow the route he had mapped out for them. But Joan had not come to say farewell. Just as they started, Lady Ingilby summoned Kit to her side, and behind her, in the shadow of the doorway, stood Joan.