"Best turn about, Metcalfs," growled the Squire. "We can do nothing here. There'll be the women wanting us out Beamsley way, and Michael has his donkey to attend to."
"True," assented Michael. "All's gone—Marston, York, Skipton—but Elizabeth is with us still. There's many a kick left in li'le Elizabeth."
So—with laughter, lest they cried—the Metcalf men took route again for Beamsley. And the Squire rode far ahead, with a stormy grief and a sense of utter desolation for companions.
Kit, seeing his father's trouble, was minded to spur forward and help him in his need; but Michael checked him.
"He has the black dog on his shoulders. Best leave him to it."
"Why, yes. That is the Metcalf way, I had forgotten, Michael."
When they neared the hill that was the last of their climb, up and over into Beamsley, they saw the slim figure of a woman, tall against the sky; and, as they came nearer still, Michael—whose sight was like a hawk's—told them that Miss Bingham was waiting there to bring them back.
"Kind and sonsy, she," laughed one of the late garrison at Knaresborough.
"You will unsay that, sir," said Christopher.
"There's nothing to unsay. Kind and sonsy—daft hot-head, you might say that of your own mother."