She laughed, low and pleasantly, like a breeze blowing through a rose-garden. "I slept with nightmares. You are forgiven for rousing me with news that Rupert comes."
Then she, too, saw how weary this Riding Metcalf was, and touched him on the arm with motherly admission of his tiredness. "You need food and wine, sir. I was thoughtless."
The grey old servant, standing like a watch-dog on the threshold, caught her glance, and came in by and by with a well-filled tray.
"Admit that we are well-provisioned, Mr. Metcalf. The siege has left some niceties of the table lacking, but we do well enough."
She nibbled at her food, intent on keeping his riotous appetite in countenance. By the lines in his face, by the temperate haste with which he ate and drank, she knew him for a soldier older than his years.
"Tell me how it sped with your riding from the North?" she asked.
"It went bonnily—a fight down Skipton Raikes, and into the market-place. Then to Ripley, and running skirmishes; and, after that, the ride to Oxford. I saw the King and Rupert, and all the prayers I ever said were answered."
"Oh, I'm tired here, waiting at home with gunshots interrupting every meal. Tell me how the King looked."
"Tired, as you are—resolute, as if he went to battle—and he bade me give you the frankest acknowledgment of his regard."
"Ah, he knows, then—knows a little of what we've done at Lathom?"