Pansy did not take the news to her mistress, whose moods were not to be reckoned with these days, but to the lady of the house. Already she had learned, with her quick instinct for character, that Lady Ingilby and she had much in common.
"The Riding Metcalfs are in Ripley, by your leave," she said, with downcast eyes.
"I'm vastly glad to hear it. Miss Grant has told me of their loyalty. Well?"
"Master Christopher lies wounded in the tavern—he that carried the message so well. It seems a shame that he should stay there with only men to nurse him."
"Ah, Master Christopher! I've heard of him, Why do you bring the news to me, girl, instead of to your mistress?"
"Because, my lady, she's deep in love with him, and does not know it. I'd as lief meet a she-wolf in the open as talk of him to the mistress."
The other laughed whole-heartedly. It was the first real laugh she had found since her husband left her for the wars. "You've a head on your shoulders, child, and a face rather too pretty for the snares of this world. I thank you for the news."
An hour later Lady Ingilby went out, alone and on foot, into Ripley street. There was a press of Metcalfs about the roadway—brawny men who had slept beside their horses wherever they could find room about the fields, and who had gathered for the next day's call to action.
"Is the Squire of Nappa here?" asked Lady Ingilby.
"He's indoors," said Michael, with his graceless ease of bearing, "tending Christopher, the darling of our company."