from that day forward, the first strangeness of their gipsy life grew to be familiar, usual. little by little the parliament soldiery went south or westward, to share in the attack on royalist garrisons still unaffected by the disastrous news from yorkshire; but the country was infested by roving bands of cut-purses and murderers—men who had hung on the skirts of civil war, ready to be king's men or levellers, when they knew which side claimed the victory.

it was the exploits of these prowling rascals that set many a story going of the outrages committed by true roundheads, who had no share in them; but the squire of nappa was not concerned with public rumour or the judgment of generations to come after. his whole heart—all the untiring watchfulness that had made him a leader of picked cavalry—were centred in this new, appalling peril. day by day the raff and jetsom of the country moved abroad in numbers that steadily increased. they were not dangerous in the open against the disciplined men of knaresborough and nappa; but they asked for constant vigilance, as if the wolf-packs of old days had returned to haunt these moorland solitudes.

they were heading by short stages to nappa; for, as the squire explained, there was room enough in house and outbuildings to house them all, and they might well hold it for the king, if the chance of war brought the tumult north again.

"a hard-bitten bull-dog, you," said the governor of knaresborough.

"ay, maybe. i guard my own, and there's a sort of bite about a mecca when he's roused."

"there is, sir—a yorkshire bite, they say."

their route was hindered, not only by prowling vagabonds, but by the men who fell sick by the wayside, now that the stress of the big fight was ended, and they had leisure to take count of wounds. miss bingham went among the fallen, bandaging a wound here, giving a cup of water there, bringing constantly the gift she had of soothing sick men's fancies.

once—it was when they camped on outlaw moss, and the gloaming found her nursing little blake—the governor and squire metcalf halted as they made their round of the camp.

"so blake has given in at last," said the squire. "pity he didn't learn that lesson years ago."

"that is true, sir," said miss bingham gravely. "with a broken heart, there's no shame in lying down by the wayside. he should have done it long since."

the governor laughed, as if a child's fancy had intruded into the workaday routine. "the jest will serve, miss bingham. we know blake, and, believe me, he never had a heart to be broken. whipcord and sinew—he rides till he drops, with no woman's mawkishness to hinder him."

"no mawkishness," she agreed. "i give you good-night, gentlemen. he needs me, if he is not to die before the dawn."

"oh, again your pardon," said the governor roughly. "you played in knaresborough—you were always playing—and we thought you light."

"so i am, believe me, when men are able to take care of themselves. it is when they're weak that i grow foolish and a nurse."

metcalf and the governor were silent as they went their round, until the squire turned abruptly.

"my wife is like that," he said, as if he had captured some new truth, unguessed by the rest of a dull world. "ay, and my mother, god rest her. memories of cradle-days return, when we are weak; they show their angel side."

"there's only one thing ails miss bingham—she's a woman to the core of her. eh, metcalf, it must be troublesome to be a woman. i'd liefer take all my sins pick-a-back, and grumble forward under the weight, and be free of whimsies."

through the short summer's night, miss bingham tended blake. she heard him talk of knaresborough and the ferry-steps—always the ferry-steps. she learned all that she had seemed to him, and wondered how any man could view any woman through such a pleasant mist of worship. then she listened to the tale of his rude awakening, and winced as he spoke in delirium words that could never be forgotten. and then again they were watching nidd river swirl beneath them, and he was busy with a lover's promises. when he slept at last, wearied by the speed of his own fancies, she sat watching him. a round, white moon had climbed over the edge of outlaw moss. she saw the lines of hardship in his face—lines bitten in by harsh weather of the world and of the soul.

"poor blake," she thought, "ah, poor li'le blake!"

from the foolery that had been her life till now there came a gust of sickliness. blake could not live till dawn. she would go afield while they were hiding him under the earth, would bring wild flowers and strew them broadcast over his resting-place. she would pray tenderly at his graveside.

already she half believed these pious exercises would recompense blake for the loss of all he had cared for in this life. he would know that she was there, and look down on the fret and burden of his heartbreak as a thing well worth the while. she would smother his dead grief with flowers and penitence.

it was blake himself who disordered the well-planned poetry. he did not die at dawn. they waited three days on outlaw moss till they knew that he would live, and four days afterwards until his old laugh returned, and he could get his knees about a saddle. then they went forward another stage on the slow journey out to nappa.

miss bingham stood between the old world and the new; and that experience, for any man or woman's soul, is hazardous. she saw herself in true outline. as others gambled with gold and silver pieces, she had played with hearts. she had not known the value of the stakes; but now she understood. one by one, in memory's cold procession, she saw them pass—blake, his young soul on fire with worship; anstruther, who had persisted in throning her among the stars, and who was now, they said, no company for any gentry save those of wayside taverns. she hid her eyes. spoiled, wayward, she resented the discipline of penance. day by day she thought more of christopher, and welcomed his sturdy self-reliance as a shield against her past.

day by day, too, joan grant grew more silent, more aloof from the haphazard routine of their life among the hills. and the whole camp looked on, afraid for their idol, christopher, afraid for joan, great loathing for miss bingham growing in their midst.

miss bingham, well aware of the hostility, did not know whether her heart were hardened or softened by it. it was as if she stood in the thick of a northern march—sunshine on one side of the hedge, sleet and a bitter wind on the other. but there came a day when she carried her troubles to a little, ferny glen hidden deep among the pastures and the heather. their morning's route had brought them near to hawes, the grey village that gathers the spreading yorkshire dales into its hand as a lady holds an open fan. the camp was busy, dining on odds and ends—mutton, cabbage, herbs, all stewing fragrantly in a pot reared gipsy-wise over a fire of wood—and miss bingham heard their laughter come up the breeze.

they had purchased a barrel of home-brewed ale from a neighbouring tavern, and were toasting blake at the moment.

"here's to li'le blake, who never tires," said the squire.

"why should he?" put in michael. "women have never troubled him, i wager."

"at your age, youngster, to go flouting the good sex!" growled the governor.

"your pardon, sir. the sex has flouted me. i'm envying blake because he had mother-wit to steer wide of trouble. even elizabeth, who dotes on me, is full of the most devilish caprices."

kit grew impatient of it all. he was in no mood for the banter and light jests that eased the journey home to nappa. there was a fever in his blood, a restlessness whose cause was known to every man in camp except himself. he sought some hiding-place, with the instinct of all wounded folk; and his glance fell on a wooded gorge that showed as a sanctuary set in the middle of a treeless land.

he came down the path between the honeysuckle and the flowering thorns. there was a splash of water down below, and he had in mind to bathe in some sequestered pool and wash away the heat and trouble of the times.

he found the pool, green with reflected leafage, deep and murmurous, and saw miss bingham seated at its brink. she turned with a smile of welcome.

"i knew that you would come, my puritan. there is room beside me here. sit and tell me—all that the waterfall is singing—the might-have-beens, the fret and bubble of this life—the never-ending wonder that men should die for their king when there are easier roads to follow."

"ask the stream." kit's laugh was unsteady, and his voice seemed to come from far-away. "to die for the king—it may not be ease, but surely it is happiness."

"talk to me. tell me how he looked—the king—when you saw him there in oxford. and rupert? his name alone brings back the old crusading days, before we grew tired of poetry."

she beguiled him into talk. she spun a web about him, fine as gossamer and strong as hempen rope. all the route south to oxford—the return by way of lathom house—the queer way of their entry into york—took on a new significance and glamour as she prompted him with eager, maidish questions.

"so you came to york as a puritan? there would be no great disguise in that, as i have told you often. ah, no wrath, i pray you! women laugh at—at those they care for, lest they care too much."

kit seemed to be in some poppyland of dreams. he had travelled that country once already in miss bingham's company—at the ferry-steps in knaresborough. then he had been weak of body, recovering slowly from a sickness she had nursed. now he was hale and ruddy; but there is a weakness of great health, and this found him now. gallop and trot over perilous roads, rude bivouacs by night and rough-handed war by day—these had been his life since, long ago, he had left the ripening yoredale corn. he was weary of the effort, now that it was over; and all the gardens he had known, all the ease and softness of summer skies, were gathered round this woman who shared the glen with him.

"and there was marston," she said, breaking the silence.

"ay, god knows there was marston. rupert, the squire, and i—the three of us lying in a bean-field, listening to the wounded there in wilstrop wood—i can hear the uproar now."

"ah! forget it. it is over and done with. you have earned your ease."

kit believed it. the poppy odours were about him, thick as the scent of flowering beans that had all but sent rupert and himself to their last sleep at marston. the strong, up-country gospel whispered at his ear that no man earns his ease this side the grave. he would not heed the whisper. it was good to be here with the lapping water, the smell of woodland growth, the woman who cast pleasant spells about him.

a great pity stirred in her, against her will. she grew aware of things beyond the dalliance of each day's affairs. here, weak in her hands, was a man to be made or marred; and he seemed well on the way to lose all because she bade him. compunction came to her. she was minded to laugh out of court this grave affair, and send him out, as she had done others, with great faith in her own instability.

yet she was powerless. the war her men-folk had waged against the adversary—their simple faith in kingship threading all their days, of fight and drink and banter, with a golden skein—had touched the heart that had been cold till now. by his own strength he must win through this combat she had forced on him—or by his own weakness he must take her hand and lead her through the years that must for ever be made up of broken vows.

kit got to his feet, paced up and down irresolutely. he was fighting for the kingship of his soul, and all the glen went dizzying by him. it was a simple matter that brought back the memory of ancient loyalty and faith—just the song of the water as it splashed down its ferny bed. he glanced sharply round, saw the fall of the stream, with sunlight and the glint of shadowed leafage on its ripples. he remembered just such a waterfall, just such a sheltered glen, away in yoredale.

the poppy-sleep was on him still. yoredale was far away, and joan's tongue was barbed with nettle-stings these days. better to take his ease, and have done with effort. he glanced again at the water splashing down its steep rock-face; and suddenly he stood at attention, as if the king confronted him. it might be his fancy; it might be some chance play of light and shade, made up of dancing water and leafage swaying in the summer's breeze; but the thing he saw was a sword, silver-bright—a big, two-handed sword with its hilt clear against the sky, and its point hidden in the pool below. he stood for a moment, bewildered. then a great sob broke up the grief and hardship that had been his since marston.

she followed the pointing of his finger, but saw nothing save water slipping down the cool rock-front.

then she glanced at his face, and saw that the days of her sorcery were ended.

a forlorn self-pity numbed her. if he had broken faith with joan grant, she would have recompensed him—have been the tenderest wife in christendom, because he had found her womanhood for her—had taught her heart to beat, instead of fluttering idly to every breeze that roamed.

"sir, i hate you most devoutly," she said. "get up the wood again. i used to laugh at all good puritans, and the memory would hurt me if you stayed."

kit was never one to hide his light or darkness from a prying world. the whole camp had seen his madness, had marvelled at the change in him—his sudden tempers, his waywardness, his hot impatience for fight of some kind—with his fellows or with any roaming band of enemies that chanced to cross, their path. now they wondered that he went among them with a new light about his face, a gaiety that was not so heedless as of old, but riper and more charitable.

"the babe grows up," said michael to the squire, as they jogged forward over sultry roads.

"it will be a thrifty growth, lad. if i could say as much of thee, i'd be content."

"oh, i'm past gibes, sir. elizabeth, alone of you all—she understands me. we have long ears and long wits, she and i. believe me, we are wise."

they came at last to their own country, and the knaresborough men wondered why jest and high spirits ceased among the riding metcalfs. they did not guess how rooted in the homeland were the affections of these men who had gone abroad to play their part in the big issue of king and parliament. they could not divine the mist of tenderness and yearning that veiled their eyes as they saw the slopes of yoredale run to meet their eager gallop. wounds, havoc of battlefields that had seen brave hopes lost, all were forgotten. they were back among the greening corn again.

the squire lost courage, for the first time since the riding out, when he reached the gate of his own homestead and saw his wife run forward in answer to the rousing challenge of "a mecca for the king!"

she came to his saddle, lifted up her face, as a bride might do for the nuptial kiss. she looked for kit, the well-beloved, and for michael. then her glance ran to and fro among the company, seeking for remembered faces; and memory found many gaps. she faced her husband. there was accusation in her voice; for she had sat at home with weariness and fear and abnegation, and all her strength was gone.

"where are the rest?" she asked.

"serving the king, wife, wherever they be. i'll go warrant for a metcalf beyond the gates of this world."

with a coldness that dismayed them, she counted her living metcalfs. "a hundred and twenty rode out. fifty and two return. the sunshine hurts me."

"they did well—no man can do more."

those looking on saw courage struggle through her weakness, and in their hearts they knew that warfare had shown nothing finer. "i—i shall pray that this bitterness may go from me. i shall hope to tell them—oh, a little later on—that it is good to die for the king's majesty."

they saw her waver, saw the old, indomitable pride return.

"metcalfs, well done—oh, well done! i am proud of my living—and my dead."

"god rest their souls, wife. they have harvested their corn."

as the weeks passed on, and grief and wounds alike were healing, a new disquiet stole in and out among the men quartered in nappa's hospitable house and outbuildings. they were idling here. if marston moor had killed the cause in the north, there was battle doing further south.

the squire's wife watched it brewing, this new menace to all that was left of her happiness. she knew, that it was idle to resist or to persuade. she had bred men-sons for the king's service, and must abide by it.

joan grant was younger to experience. first-love was hindering her vision of what her man must do before he came to his kingdom; and she quarrelled openly with christopher, as they came home together through the gloaming august fields.

"so you are weary of me in a month?" she said, halting at the stile. "ah, the pity of it. it was here—or have you forgotten?—that i bade you climb high if you would find my heart. and you climbed and—and found it, and now you talk of battle—only of battle and the king."

all his world seemed to fail him—the will to ride out again until there was no more asked of him but to return and claim her—the certainty that she would be the first to give god-speed to his errand—all were drowned in this storm of tears and petulance that broke about him. yet he remembered the sword that had stood, its point in the woodland stream, its hilt against the clear, blue sky above. he did not waver this time, for his love was no beguilement, but a spur that urged him forward.

"i go," he said roughly.

"and if you lose me in the going?"

"then i lose you—there's no choice."

she got down from the stile, rebellious, fitful as a gusty spring. it was only when they neared the homestead that she turned, her eyes bright and eager, and touched his hand. "i am glad—oh, i am glad!" she said.

late that afternoon miss bingham and little blake had gone for a moorland ride together. blake had made a false recovery from his weakness, as soon as he learned that there was to be another riding-out, and had urged that he must get his mare in trim again by daily rides. and miss bingham had insisted that his nurse went with him, lest he fell by the way.

in all her wide experience of men she had not met one so gay, so tranquil, so entirely master of what had been, of what was to come, as this little irishman whose health had gone down the stream of high adventure. with a broken heart and a broken body, he thought only of the coming rides through lonely night-roads, of meccas riding again for the king they served, of the dust and rain of circumstance. he remembered droll stories, flavoured by irish wit and heedlessness. he fell, between whiles, into passionate hope of what was to come, when the king came to his own in the south country, by help of the riding metcalfs, and drove the rebels from the north. then, with a gentleness that laughed at itself, he explained that it was good to have sat on the ferry-steps at knaresborough.

"i lost—but the stakes were well worth winning. the blakes were ever gamblers."

she had great skill in tending the wounded. in the man's face she read many signs of bodily weakness. his voice—his detachment from the gross affairs of life—told their own tale. but she did not look for it so soon.

at the gate of the farmstead, just as he dismounted, blake fell prone in the roadway, and tried to rise, and could not.

when joan and kit metcalf returned—it might be a half-hour later—they found miss bingham kneeling at the dead man's side. and her face, when she lifted it, was a woman's face—grave, charitable, tender with some forward hope.

"here's little blake," she said. "he rides very well, my friends."