"And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.
"A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, I fancy. Your own name, sir?"
"Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."
A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of grace again.
"Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness and martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale and kept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Then, as one who relishes brown ale, I ask you what your business is, disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?"
"Our business is short and sharp—to bid you surrender, or we sack the Castle."
"Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, and shut the casement.
He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself, Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumult within doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, for the first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose wrap thrown about her disarray, understood the full meaning of clan discipline.