All folk, even grey and pampered servants, obey the ring of true command in a man’s voice; and after Kit had waited for what seemed a week to his impatience, a great lady came down the stair and halted at a little distance from him, and looked him up and down. Her face was lined with trouble; there were crows’-feet about her eyes; but she was dressed fastidiously, and her head was erect with challenge. "Well, sir?" she asked sharply. "You rob me of sleep for some good reason, doubtless. Sleep? You could have asked no dearer gift. But the King himself commands, you say?" [Illustration: "’Well, sir?’ she asked sharply. ’You rob me of sleep for some good reason doubtless?’"] Kit faced her ill-temper, and she liked him for it. "My lady," he said, "Prince Rupert bids me tell you that he comes your way, for the relief of Lathom. He bids me tell you that Lathom House has lit a fire of loyalty from one end to the other of your county." "So Rupert comes at last?" she asked eagerly. "As soon as he can gather forces. Meanwhile, he sends me as his deputy, and that’s one more sword-arm at your service." Again she looked him up and down; and smiled. "I like big men. They help to fill this roomy house I’m defending for my husband and the King—for the King and my husband, I should say, if I were not a better wife than courtier." Kit, for his part, could not take his eyes away from her. Two women of the breed he had seen before, and two only—the Queen, with courage gloved by French, disarming courtesy, and the downright mistress of Ripley Castle. As Lady Derby stood there, the traces of her twelve months’ Calvary were apparent, because she had been roused suddenly from sleep, and pride had not asserted full control as yet. Under her tired eyes the crows’-feet showed like spiders’ webs; her face was thin and drawn; and yet there was a splendour about her, as if each day of each week of hardship had haloed her with grace. She was, in deed as in name, the great lady—so great that Kit felt dwarfed for a moment. Then his manhood returned, in a storm of pity to protect this woman. "Go sleep again," he said. "I was wrong to rouse you with my news." She laughed, low and pleasantly, like a breeze blowing through a rose-garden. "I slept with nightmares. You are forgiven for rousing me with news that Rupert comes." Then she, too, saw how weary this Riding Metcalf was, and touched him on the arm with motherly admission of his tiredness. "You need food and wine, sir. I was thoughtless." The grey old servant, standing like a watch-dog on the threshold, caught her glance, and came in by and by with a well-filled tray. "Admit that we are well-provisioned, Mr. Metcalf. The siege has left some niceties of the table lacking, but we do well enough."