The Nappa men were only turned from pursuing the enemy into the teeth of the guns on Cock Hill by Mallory, who rode forward sharply, reined about and fronted them.
"Gentlemen of Yoredale," he said, quiet and persuasive, "the King does not command you to be blown to bits up yonder. He has other need of you."
"I like to sickle the whole field once I make a start," said Squire Metcalf.
"Ay, but there's a biggish field in front of you. You'll need to sleep between-whiles, Squire."
When they turned to ride up the High Street again, the Squire, among all this muddle of wounded Metcalfs, and horses that were white and crimson now, saw only a little man slipping from the saddle of a little mare. He rode up in time to ease his fall, and afterwards felt the man's wounds gently, as a woman might. And the tears were in his eyes.
"It's Blake, the messenger, and God knows I'm sorry. He fought like the biggest rogue that ever was breeked at Nappa."
"His soul's too big for his strength," said Mallory, with his unalterable common sense. "He'll just have to lie by for a while."
"There's naught much amiss, save loss o' blood, may be. We'll get him to the Castle gate, and then—why we'll just ride up the Raikes and spike those cannon lying in the ditch."
"You're thorough, you men of Nappa," said Mallory, with a sudden laugh.
"Men have to be, these days," the Squire answered soberly. "If a body rides for the King—well, he rides for the King, and no two ways about it."