When the gate was closed, and Kit came out of the berserk madness known as war, he saw the Lady of Lathom in the courtyard. "But, indeed, sir, you’ve done very well," said she, moving through the press of men to give him instant greeting. "It was pastime." Kit’s voice was unsteady yet, his head swimming with the wine that drips, not from red grapes, but from the sword that has taken toll of human life. "We brought the mortar in." "You did, friends. Permit me to say good-night. I have need to get to my knees, thanking God that he sends so many gentlemen my way." After she was gone, and the men were gathered round the peat fire in the hall, Kit was aware that he was at home. All were united here, as the Metcalfs were united. Private jealousies were lost in this need to defend Lathom for the King. Captain Chisenhall was here, stifling a yawn as he kicked the fire into a glow, Fox, and Worrall and Rawstorn, and others whose faces showed old with long service to this defence of Lathom—the defence that shone like the pole star over the descending night that was to cover kingship for a while. They asked news of the Riding Metcalfs; and that, in turn, drew them to talk of Lathom’s siege. They told him of Captain Radcliffe, who had led twelve sorties from the house, and had spread dismay among the enemy until they feared even the whisper of his name. "I was never one for my Lady Derby’s prayerful view of life," said Rawstorn, his gruff voice softening, "but Radcliffe was on her side. He’d slip away before a sortie, and we knew he was praying at the altar of the little chapel here. Then he would come among us, cracking a jest; but there was a light about his face as if the man were glamoured." "I know that glamour, too," said Kit, with his unconquerable simplicity. "There’s a cracked bell rings me in on Sabbath mornings to our kirk in Yoredale." "What do you find there, lad?" asked a rough elder of the company. "Strength undeserved, and the silver sheen of wings." So then they were silent; for they knew that he could fight and pray—-two qualities that men respect. It was the big-jowled elder who broke the silence. "Say, laddie, can you drink?" he growled. "A bucketful, if I’m not needed on this side of the dawn." Comfort of the usual kind might be lacking here at Lathom, but the cellar was well filled. And Kit, as the wine passed round, learned the truth that comes from unlocked tongues. They talked of the siege, these gallants who had kept watch and ward; they told how Lady Derby had trained her children not to whimper when cannon-shot broke roughly into the dining-hall; they told how Captain Radcliffe, his head erect, had gone out for the thirteenth sortie, how they had warned him of the ill-omen.