on either side. The cannon, as they fell, ripped the waggons into splintered wreckage.

Between the fallen horses, through the litter of broken waggons, the men of Nappa drove what had been the rearguard of the convoy. They picked their way through the fifty yards of broken ground, lifted their white horses to the next attack, and charged the second company of Roundheads. Those of the shattered rearguard who could not draw aside were driven down pell-mell into their upcoming friends, bringing confusion with them. And through it all there rang the Squire's voice, with its keen, insistent cry of "A Mecca for the King!" In that hour the Parliament men learned that the Stuart, too, had downright servants at command, who were not made up of dalliance and lovelocks.

The men of Nappa would not be denied. They asked no quarter and gave none; and they drove the Roundheads—who contested every step with stubborn pluck—down the hill and up the gentle rise past Skipton Church, and into the broad High Street that was the comeliest in Yorkshire. The Castle, with its motto of "Désormais" carved in stone against the blue autumn sky, looked down on this sudden uproar in the street; men's faces showed above the battlements, eager with question and surprise.

The tumult reached Lambert's ears, too, as he stood beside the cannon on Cock Hill. Knowing that reinforcements were coming over the Lancashire border, he thought the garrison had made a sortie; and he gave a sharp command to fire on the Castle as fast as they could load their clumsy cannon, to bring the sortie party back to the defence. The Roundhead luck was out altogether, for the first cannon-ball flew high above the carved motto of "Désormais," and the second, falling short, killed three of the horsemen who were retreating, step by step, before the Nappa men.

Sir John Mallory, the governor, was one of the men who looked down from the battlements. He had a zealous heart, and his thirty years of life had taught him that it was good to live or die for the King. Below he saw a swarm of giants striding white horses; saw the little messenger he had sent to Nappa fighting as merrily as any Metcalf of them all; saw the Roundheads retreating stubbornly. As he watched, a cannon-ball whistled by, a foot or two above his head, and ruffled his hair in passing as a sharp wind might do.

"My thanks, Lambert," he said impassively. "One needs a breeze after long confinement."

Then he went down the slippery stair; and a little later the drawbridge rattled down, and he rode out with twenty others who were sick from lack of exercise.

It was a stubborn business. The Roundheads left behind with the overturned guns, up the Rylstone road, recaptured the courage that no man doubted, and came driving in at the rear of this pitched battle. Lambert himself, the increasing tumult coming up to him through the still, autumn air, got thirty of the besiegers together. They had ridden in at dawn, and their horses were picketed close at hand. As they galloped up the High Street, they were met by the weight of their own retreating friends from Lancashire; and it was now that Lambert showed the leadership, the power of glamouring his men, which none among the Roundheads had since Hampden died.

"Friends," he said,—the Quaker instinct in him suggesting that odd form of address when battle was in progress—"friends, I trust you."

Just that. He had found the one word that is magical to strong men. They answered him with a rousing shout, and drove up against the King's men. For a moment even the Nappa riders gave back; but the recoil seemed only to help them to a fiercer onset. They had both Cavalier speed and Roundhead weight, these Metcalf men and horses; and Sir John Mallory, fighting beside them for mastery of the High Street, was aware that Yoredale had given the King a finer troop of horse than even Rupert could command.

Across the thick of it Mallory caught Lambert's glance, and an odd smile played about their lips. The same thought came to both between the hurry of the fight. Not long ago they had dined together, had talked of the winter's hunting soon to come, had smoked their pipes in amity. Now each was thanking God that the shifting issues of the battle did not bring them sword to sword; for civil war is always a disastrous and a muddling enterprise.

The glance, and the memories that went to its making, were over in a second. It was a forward plunge again of King's men meeting Roundheads, hard to drive. And suddenly there rose a cry keen as winter in the uplands and strong as sun at midsummer.

"Now, Metcalfs," roared the Squire of Nappa, "into the standing corn—and God for the King, say I!"

Into the standing corn they went, and it was open flight now down the length of Skipton Street. Time after time Lambert strove to rally his men, using oaths that had not been taught him by the Quakers, but the retreat swept him down, carrying him with it. A great gentleman, whichever side he took in this fierce quarrel, was learning for the first time the sickness of defeat.

The Nappa men were only turned from pursuing the enemy into the teeth of the guns on Cock Hill by Mallory, who rode forward sharply, reined about and fronted them.

"Gentlemen of Yoredale," he said, quiet and persuasive, "the King does not command you to be blown to bits up yonder. He has other need of you."

"I like to sickle the whole field once I make a start," said Squire Metcalf.

"Ay, but there's a biggish field in front of you. You'll need to sleep between-whiles, Squire."

When they turned to ride up the High Street again, the Squire, among all this muddle of wounded Metcalfs, and horses that were white and crimson now, saw only a little man slipping from the saddle of a little mare. He rode up in time to ease his fall, and afterwards felt the man's wounds gently, as a woman might. And the tears were in his eyes.

"It's Blake, the messenger, and God knows I'm sorry. He fought like the biggest rogue that ever was breeked at Nappa."

"His soul's too big for his strength," said Mallory, with his unalterable common sense. "He'll just have to lie by for a while."

"There's naught much amiss, save loss o' blood, may be. We'll get him to the Castle gate, and then—why we'll just ride up the Raikes and spike those cannon lying in the ditch."

"You're thorough, you men of Nappa," said Mallory, with a sudden laugh.

"Men have to be, these days," the Squire answered soberly. "If a body rides for the King—well, he rides for the King, and no two ways about it."

Kit drew apart from the turmoil, and searched for the kerchief Joan Grant had dropped in front of his horse, away in Yoredale yonder. It was white no longer, but reddened by a wound that he had taken. And quietly, in the stillness that comes after battle, he knew that he was to follow a long road and a hard road till he was home again. It was better—in his heart he knew it—than dallying at country stiles, sick with calf-love for a maid too high above him.

"You look happy, lad," said the Squire, as he drew rein beside him.

"I'm climbing a tree, sir, a big tree. There's somebody's heart at the top of it."

"Ay, Miss Joan's," growled Squire Metcalf. "Well, go on climbing, lad. You