The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh. The men were glad to follow his good example.
"Your health, Lady Ingilby—your good health," said the Squire.
While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud.
"Gad, here's Blake!" laughed Kit Metcalf. "Blake, the rider—I saw him bring the Metcalfs into Oxford."
Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby, I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."
A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his message to the public ear."
"He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood. There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison at York. He bids me tell you he is safe."
"Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?"
"No, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me."
"I—am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my lord's message?"