That night at supper, you may be sure, nothing was talked of among the Monksfield officers but the numbers and the strength of the enemy.
"So one of my lord Caversham's sons is of the attacking party?" asked Nick Slanning.
"What would you?" said Captain Brooke, who still was very brown of face, for he had found the walnut stain hard to wash off.
"They are all rank rebels, the whole house of Caversham," he went on. "His Lordship, old Rob Fowell, the white-haired hypocrite, is in command for the Parliament at Ryeborough. And did he not give his eldest daughter in marriage to that arrant Roundhead, Peter Hatcher? 'Tis but in nature that one of my lord's hopeful sons should march against us at Hatcher's right hand."
"By chance, do you know which one of Caversham's sons it is that cometh with Hatcher?" Lieutenant Digby looked up suddenly to ask.
"'Tis the third son, Dick Fowell," Captain Brooke made answer.
"Dick Fowell?" cried Digby, and flushed dully. "Heaven be thanked for good luck!"
"You know him?" asked Slanning.
"At home I dwell a neighbor to Lord Caversham," Digby answered. "Yes, I know Dick Fowell, and if we meet in the fight, by this hand! he'll have good cause to know me."
As he spoke, Digby laughed, and when he left the room, he still was laughing. But in his laughter there was something that made a dry place come in Merrylips' throat and an emptiness at the pit of her stomach.