Kit returned to find Lady Ingilby with a smoking pistol in her hand. Her voice was tremulous.
"Sir, if this is to feel as men do—ah, thank the good God I was born a woman. I aimed truly, and—and I have no pride in it."
Through the sunrise and the hot, moist scent of flowering hedgerows they made their way down the narrow farm-track which was henceforth to be known as Rupert’s Lane. At the ditch and the battered hedgerow where Cromwell’s horse had been driven back, a man on foot asked sharply who went there.
"Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King."
[Illustration: "’Lady Ingilby, come to see whether her husband lives or is dead for the King.’"]
"I cannot tell you, madam. There are so many dead, on both sides of the battle."
"But I must know. Give us free conduct through the lines, my friend here and myself; it is a little thing to ask."
The Parliament man was muffled in a great-coat, an unwieldy hat drawn over his eyes. But Christopher knew him, though Ingilby’s wife, her heart set on one errand only, saw beyond and through him, scarce knowing he was there save as an obstacle to progress down the lane.
"It is granted," said the Roundhead, "if you permit me to bandage your eyes until we come to the place where Sir William fought. I know the place, because our men brought in high tales of his strength and courage."
"But why the bandage?" she asked peremptorily.
"Because, between here and where he fought, there are sights not good for any woman’s eyes."
"Ah, tut! I’ve nursed men at Ripley who were not good to see. Their wounds were taken for the King, and so were pleasant."
They went through what had been the centre of the King’s army—went through all that was left of the Whitecoats, thick-huddled with their faces to the sky. For a moment even Ingilby’s wife was dizzy and appalled. There was no scent of summer hedgerows now. Then she took hold again of her unalterable courage.
They came to the place where Sir William’s company had fought; and the sun, gaining strength already to drive through the mists of last night’s thunderstorm, showed her the faces of many folk remembered, but not her husband’s.
"I thank God," she said simply. Then, as she turned to retrace her steps, the inbred courtesy of the woman surmounted the pain that had gone before, the passionate thanksgiving that followed. "I thank you, too, for conduct through the lines. What is your name, that I may remember it in my prayers?"