"That may be enough for Michael; but you sleep in Ripley to-night, you two. You need older heads to counsel you."
"Is Joan in the Castle still?" he asked, forgetting Knaresborough and Miss Bingham.
"Oh, yes. She has wings undoubtedly under her trim gown, but she has not flown away as yet. We'll just ride back and find you quarters for the night."
Michael, for his part, was nothing loth to have another day of ease. There was a dizzying pain in his head, a slackness of the muscles, that disturbed him, because he had scarce known an hour's sickness until he left Yoredale to accept shrewd hazard on King Charles's highway.
"How did my friend the donkey come to be with you in the fight?" he asked, as they rode soberly for home.
"She would not be denied," laughed Squire Mecca. "She made friends with all our horses, and where the swiftest of them goes she goes, however long it takes to catch us up. No bullet ever seems to find her."
"Donkeys seldom die," assented Michael. "For myself, sir, I've had the most astonishing escapes."
When they came to Ripley, and the Squire brought his two sons into the courtyard, Lady Ingilby was crossing from the stables. She looked them up and down in her brisk, imperative way, and tapped Christopher on the shoulder—the wounded shoulder, as it happened.
"Fie, sir, to wince at a woman's touch! I must find Joan for you. Ah, there! you've taken wounds, the two of you. It is no time for jesting. The Squire told me you were galloping in search of Rupert."
"So we are," said Christopher. "This is just a check in our stride."