Another bullet went wide of Kit, a third whistled past his left cheek; so that he yielded to common sense at last, and stooped under shelter of the parapet. The besiegers then brought other artillery to bear. A harsh, resonant voice came down-wind to them: "Hear the news, you dandies of Lady Derby’s! Sir Thomas Fairfax has routed your men at Selby. Cromwell is busy in the east. Three of our armies have surrounded your Duke of Newcastle in York. Is that enough for my lady to breakfast on, or would you have further news?" The sentry—old, taciturn, and accustomed through long months to this warfare of the tongue—bided his time. He knew the habits of these spokesmen of Rigby’s. When no answer came from the ramparts, further taunts and foul abuse swept upward from below. Still there was no reply, till the man, in a fierce rage of his own making, got up and showed head and shoulders above the trench. The sentry fired, without haste. "One less," he growled. "It’s queer to see a man go round and round like a spinning top before he tumbles out of sight." "Was his news true?" asked Kit, dismayed by the tidings. "Ah, that’s to prove. Liars speak truth now and then. Stands to reason they must break into truth, just time and time, by chance." Kit left the rampart presently, and found a hungry company of men at breakfast. "Why so grave, Mr. Metcalf?" laughed Lady Derby, who was serving porridge from a great bowl of earthenware. "You are hungry, doubtless. There’s nothing else brings such gravity as yours to a man’s face." "I was thinking of last night’s sortie," said Kit. "So that hunger, too, grows on you as on my other gentlemen? But, indeed, we propose to rest to-day. Even we have had enough, I think." He told them the news shouted from the trenches. Rough-riding, zeal, and youth had given him a persuasiveness of his own. "The news may be true or false," he said, looking down at them from his full height; "but, either way, it will put heart into the enemy. By your leave, we must harass them." He had his way, and, knowing it, sat down to a breakfast that astonished all onlookers. "I find many kinds of admiration for you, sir," drawled Captain Chisenhall, "but especially, I think, for your gift of feeding that fine bulk of yours." "I’m just like my own homeland in Yoredale," assented Kit; "it needs feeding if strong crops are to follow." That night they made three sorties on the trenches, five on the next, and for a week they kept the pace. A few of the garrison were killed, more were wounded, but speed and fury made up for loss of numbers, and Colonel Rigby sent a messenger galloping to Manchester for help in need. The besiegers, he explained, were so harassed that they were dropping in the trenches, not from gun-fire, but from lack of sleep.