"A thrifty dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at a wedding.
For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep within the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in scattered companies, marched to replace the slain and wounded. There were sorties from the Castle, and ready fire from the loopholes overhead; and in the courtyard space lay many bodies that neither side could snatch for decent burial. There was not only famine sitting on the Ripley threshold now, but pestilence; for the moist heat of the summer was not good for dead or living men.
In the middle watch of the fourth night, Squire Metcalf heard a company of horsemen clatter up to the main gate. He thrust his head through a casement of the tower—the loopholes had been widened in these modern days—and asked gruffly the strangers’ errand.
"Surrender while you can, Nappa men," said the foremost horseman.
"There’s a company of Fairfax’s men—a thousand of them, more or less—within call."
"Ay, so are a thousand cuckoos, if you could whistle them to hand. Who are you, to come jesting at the gates?"
"That alters matters. I’m Metcalf of Nappa, and aye had a liking for the Fairfaxes, though the devil knows how they came into t’other camp. Their word is their bargain, anyhow."
Fairfax laughed. The sturdy bluntness of the man was in keeping with all he had heard of him. "That is true. Will you surrender—leaving all arms behind you?"
"No," said the Squire of Nappa. "Bring your thousand cuckoos in, and I promise ’em a welcome."
He shut the casement, called for his son Christopher to take his sentry-place, and sought Lady Ingilby.
"There’s a good deal to be done in five minutes," he said, by way of breaking the news to her.
"Oh, you think only of speed these days, and I—believe me, I am tired."
"’Tiredness butters no haver-bread,’ as we say in Yoredale. There are two ways open to us—one to surrender by and by, the other to ride out to-night."
"But my husband—-oh, he left me here to hold the Castle."
"For as long as might be. He’ll not grumble when he learns the way of our riding out. Better leave Ripley now, with honour, than wait till they starve us into surrender."
He had his way. In silence they made their preparations. Then Metcalf lifted a noisy rally-cry as he led his men into the courtyard. And the fight was grim and troublesome. When it was done, the Metcalfs turned—those who were left—and came back for the womenfolk; and some of the white horses, saddled hastily, fidgeted when for the first time they found women’s hands on the bridle.