"Up in Yoredale we heard nothing of the Pope, but much of prayers for those who crossed the fighting-line ahead of us."
Murray thought he made nothing of this lad; yet at heart he knew that, through all the moil and stench of Marston, he, too, was going back along the years—going back to the knees of his mother, whose prayers for him he thought forgotten long since.
As they were making their way through the wood again, a slim youngster, stark naked, lifted himself on an elbow and babbled in his weakness. "Have we won, friend?" he asked, looking at Kit and Murray with starry, fevered eyes.
"Aye," said Murray, Scottish pity warring with regard for truth. "We've won, my laddie."
"Then unfasten this bracelet from my wrist. Oh, quick, you fools—the time's short! Take it to Miss Bingham, out at Knaresborough yonder, and tell her I died as well as might be. Tell her Marston Moor is won for the King."
And with that there came a rattle in his throat. And he crossed himself with a feeble forefinger.
"Dear God," said Murray, "the light about his face! You simple gallants have the laugh of us when it comes to the high affair of dying."
Christopher said nothing, after closing the eyes of a gentleman the King could ill afford to lose. And so they came out of Wilstrop Wood, and found Lady Ingilby again.
"Does he lie there?" she asked sharply.
"I did not see him," answered Kit.