"So you come, Mr. Cromwell, to quarter yourself here?" Lady Ingilby was saving.
"I do, madam."
"You come alone, knowing we are a house of women and of wounded men? Oh, the courage of you! And even our wounded have left us—not one of them so crippled but the news of Rupert's coming spurred him on to Marston."
"The news of Rupert's going will comfort them, maybe," growled Cromwell.
"He thrashed you handsomely. Oh, we have the news! First, a runner came, telling how Lord Fairfax and the leader of the Ironsides had left the field."
Cromwell's quick temper took fire. "You claim a woman's privilege——
"No, my pistol's. We talk as man to man. I say that we have the news. And then a second runner came and told us Leslie's Scots had won the battle. And we sorrowed, but not as if it had been you who claimed the victory."
The man was dead weary; but her scorn, quiet and assured, roused him. "Am I so hated, then, by your side of this quarrel?"
"Hated? That is a little word."
"Good! Any wayside fool can be loved—it takes a man to earn hatred."