With astonishing speed they unpicketed their horses and got to saddle. The discipline of farm and field, out yonder at Nappa, had not gone for naught. They knew this rough-tongued Squire who meant to be obeyed.
Ben Waddilove tried to keep pace with them as they skeltered down the moor, but gave it up at last. "Nay," he muttered, "I'm not so young as I was. I'll just be in at the death, a bit later on."
Drinkwater and his lambs were tiring of their prisoner, who would not speak, would not budge or accept a price for liberty, when a trumpet call rang down the village street.
"A Mecca for the King!" roared the Squire, his voice like a mountain burn in spate.
When all was done, and Kit's hands loosened, the lad knew his weakness and the galling pains about his limbs. He lifted his head with the last rally of his strength.
"Sir, where is Drinkwater?" he asked his father.
"Dead, my lad. He ran against my pike."
"That's a pity. I wanted you to—to tell him, sir, that I had the last laugh, after all."
CHAPTER V.
THE LADY OF RIPLEY.