"Ay, of the Yoredale sort. A blow or two in Skipton High Street—who knows what heart it might give the garrison?"
"I must remind you that we have women-folk to guard, and our wounded."
"But, sir, this is a Metcalf riding, all like the olden time. We never meant your Knaresborough men to share it."
Yet some of the Knaresborough men would not be denied; and the Governor, as he saw the sixty horsemen ride over and down to Beamsley-by-the-Wharfe, wished that his private conscience would let him journey with them. He stood watching the hill-crest long after they had disappeared, and started when a hand was laid gently on his arm.
"It is hard to stay?" asked Lady Ingilby.
"By your leave, yes. Why should these big Metcalfs have all the frolic?"
"Ah, frolic! As if there were naught in life but gallop, and cut and thrust, and——sir, is there no glory in staying here to guard weak?"
The Governor was in evil mood. He had seen the King's cause go, had seen Knaresborough succumb, had watched the steadfast loyalty of a lifetime drift down the stream of circumstance like a straw in a headlong current.
"Lady Ingilby," he said wearily, "there is no longer any glory anywhere. It has gone from the land."
"It is here among us. Till we were broken folk, I did not know our strength. None but the Stuart, friend, could have kept us in such friendliness and constancy. Oh, I know! I saw you glance round for your horse when the Metcalfs went—saw your struggle fought out, sir—and, believe me, you were kind to stay."