The White Horses

by Halliwell Sutcliffe

  *CHAPTER VIII.*

  *HOW THEY SOUGHT RUPERT.*

  They had not gone seven miles before they heard, wide on theirbridle-hand, the braying of a donkey. It was not a casual braying, buta persistent, wild appeal that would not be denied.

  "Brother calls to brother," said Michael, with his diverting obedienceto superstition. "One of his kind helped me into York. We'll see whatails him."

  They crossed a strip of barren moor, and came to a hollow where somestorm of wind and lightning had long since broken a fir coppice intomatchwood. And here, at the edge of the dead trunks and the greeningbracken, they found five of their kinsmen hemmed in by fourteenstiff-built rascals who carried pikes. On the outskirts of the battle adonkey was lifting her head in wild appeal.

  With speed and certainty, Michael and his brother crashed down into thefight. The surprise, the fury of assault, though two horsemen onlyformed the rescue-party, settled the issue. And in this, had they knownit, the Metcalfs were but proving that they had learned amid countrypeace what Rupert had needed years of soldiery to discover--the worth ofa cavalry attack that is swift and tempestuous in the going.

  "We thought you far on the road to Prince Rupert," said the Squire ofNappa, cleaning his sword-blade on a tuft of grass.

  "So we should have been, sir, but we happened into Knaresborough. Kithere swooned for love of a lady--on my faith, the daintiest lass fromthis to Yoredale--and I could not drag him out until--until, youunderstand, the elder brother stepped in and made havoc of a heart thatKit could only scratch."

  "Is this true, Christopher?"

  "As true as most of Michael's tales. We fell ill of our wounds, sir,that was all."

  The donkey had ceased braying now, and was rubbing a cool snout againstMichael's hand. "Good lass!" he said. "If it hadn't been for your giftof song, and my own luck, there'd have been five Metcalfs less to serveHis Majesty."

  The old Squire pondered a while, between wrath and laughter. "That istrue," he said, in his big, gusty voice. "I always said there was roomin the world, and a welcome, for even the donkey tribe. Kit, you looklean and harassed. Tell us what happened yonder in Knaresborough."

  Kit told them, in a brief, soldierly fashion that found gruff approvalfrom the Squire; but Michael, rubbing the donkey's snout, must needsintrude his levity.

  "He forgets the better half of the story, sir. When we got inside theCastle, the prettiest eyes seen out of Yoredale smiled at him. And thelad went daft and swooned, as I told you--on my honour, he did--and thelady bound his shoulder-wound for him. A poor nurse, she; it was hisheart that needed doctoring."

  "And it was your head that needed it. She made no mistake there,Michael," said Squire Metcalf drily.

  When the laughter ceased, Kit asked how they fell into this ambush; andthe Squire explained that a company of Roundheads had come in force toRipley, that they had roused a busy hive of Metcalfs there, that in thewild pursuit he and four of his clan had outdistanced their fellows andhad found themselves hemmed in. And in this, had he known it, there wasa foreshadowing of the knowledge Rupert was to learn later on--that withthe strength of headlong cavalry attack, there went the correspondingweakness. It was hard to refrain from undue pursuit, once the wine ofspeed had got into the veins of men and horses both.

  "We're here at the end of it all," laughed the old Squire, "and that'sthe test of any venture."

  "Our gospel, sister," said Michael, fondling the donkey's ears, "though,by the look of your sleek sides, you've thrived the better on it."

  The Squire took Kit aside and drew the whole story from him of what hehoped to do in this search for Rupert. And he saw in the boy's facewhat the parish priest of Knaresborough had seen--the light that knowsno counterfeit.

  "So, Kit, you're for the high crusade! Hold your dream fast. I've hadmany of them in my time, and lost them by the way."

  "But the light is so clear," said Kit, tempted into open confidence.

  "Storms brew up, and the light is there, but somehow sleet o' the worldcomes drifting thick about it. You go to seek Rupert?"

  "Just that, sir."

  "What route do you take?"

  "Michael's--to follow the sun and our luck."

  "That may be enough for Michael; but you sleep in Ripley to-night, youtwo. You need older heads to counsel you."

  "Is Joan in the Castle still?" he asked, forgetting Knaresborough andMiss Bingham.

  "Oh, yes. She has wings undoubtedly under her trim gown, but she hasnot flown away as yet. We'll just ride back and find you quarters forthe 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, thatdisturbed him, because he had scarce known an hour's sickness until heleft Yoredale to accept shrewd hazard on King Charles's highway.

  "How did my friend the donkey come to be with you in the fight?" heasked, as they rode soberly for home.

  "She would not be denied," laughed Squire Mecca. "She made friends withall our horses, and where the swiftest of them goes she goes, howeverlong it takes to catch us up. No bullet ever seems to find her."

  "Donkeys seldom die," assented Michael. "For myself, sir, I've had themost astonishing escapes."

  When they came to Ripley, and the Squire brought his two sons into thecourtyard, Lady Ingilby was crossing from the stables. She looked themup and down in her brisk, imperative way, and tapped Christopher on theshoulder--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."

  "As it happens, you were wise to draw rein. A messenger came in an hourago. The Prince is not in Lancashire, as we had hoped. He is still inOxford--I can confirm your news on that head--lighting small jealousiesand worries. Rupert, a man to his finger-tips, is fighting indoorworries, as if he were a household drudge. The pity of it, gentlemen!"

  It was easy to understand how this woman had been a magnet who drew goodCavaliers to Ripley. Heart and soul, she was for the King. The fireleaped out to warm all true soldiers of his Majesty, to consume allhalf-way men. She stood there now, her eyes full of wonder and dismaythat they could keep Rupert yonder in Oxford when England was listeningfor the thunder of his cavalry.

  Joan Grant had not heard the incoming of the Metcalfs. She had been illand shaken, after a vivid dream that had wakened her last night, andchanged sleep to purgatory. And now, weary of herself, prisoned by thestifled air indoors, she came through the Castle gate. There might bebattle in the open, as there had been earlier in the day; but at leastthere would be fresh air.

  Michael saw her step into the sunlight, and he gave no sign that hisheart was beating furiously. Deep under his levity was the knowledgethat his life from this moment forward was to be settled by thedirection of a single glance.

  Joan halted, seeing the press of men that filled the street. Then,among the many faces, she saw two only--Michael's and his brother's.And then, because all reticence had left her, she went straight toChristopher's side.

  "Sir, you are wounded," she said, simple as any cottage-maid.

  For the rest of the day Michael was obsessed by gaiety. Whenever theSquire began to talk of Rupert, to map out their route to Oxford,Michael interposed some senseless jest that set the round-tableconference in a roar.

  "Best go groom the donkey," snapped the Squire at last. "If ever thePrince gets York's message, it will be Kit who takes it."

  "Kit has the better head. By your leave, sir, I'll withdraw."

  "No, I was hasty. Stay, Michael, but keep your lightness under."

  That night, when the Castle gate was closed, and few lights showed aboutthe windows, Christopher met Joan Grant on the stairway. He was tiredof wo
unds that nagged him, and he needed bed. She was intent on drowningsleeplessness among the old tomes in the library--a volume of sermonswould serve best, she thought.

  They met; and, because the times were full of speed and battle, she wasthe cottage maid again. All women are when the tempest batters down thefrail curtains that hide the gentle from the lowly-born. "Was she verygood to see?" she asked, remembering her last night's vision--it hadbeen more than a dream, she knew.

  So Kit, a rustic lad in his turn, flushed and asked what she meant. Andshe set the quibble aside, and told him what her dream was. Shepictured Kharesborough--though her waking eyes had never seen thetown--spoke of the gun-flare that had crossed the window-panessometimes, while a girl watched beside his pillow.

  "I was weak with my wounds," said Kit, not questioning the nearness ofthis over-world that had intruded into the everyday affairs of siege andbattle.

  "How direct you Metcalfs are! And the next time you are wounded therewill be a nurse, and you'll grow weak again, till your heart is brokenin every town that holds a garrison."

  "I leave that to Michael," he said quietly.

  All that he had done--for the King, and for the light he had watched sooften in her room at Ripley here--went for nothing, so it seemed,because he had blundered once, mistaking dreams for substance.

  "I thought you were made of better stuff than Michael."

  "There's no better stuff than Michael. Ask any Metcalf how he stands inour regard--easy-going when he's not needed, but an angel on a fieryhorse when the brunt of it comes up. He's worth two of me, Joan."

  Again Joan was aware that soldiery had taught this youngster much worththe knowing during the past months. He was master of himself, notwayward to the call of any woman.

  "We're bidding farewell," she said.

  "Yes," said Christopher. "To-morrow we set out for Oxford. Do youremember Yoredale? Your heart was at the top of a high tree, you said."

  "So it is still, sir--a little higher than before."

  "By an odd chance, so is mine. I chose a neighbouring tree."

  She was silent for a while, then passed by him and down the stair. Hewould have called her back if pride had let him.

  Then he went slowly up to bed, wondering that some freak of temper hadbidden him speak at random. For an hour it was doubtful whethertiredness or the fret of his healing wounds would claim the mastery;then sleep had its way.

  "What have I said?" he muttered, with his last conscious thought.

  He had said the one right thing, as it happened. Knaresborough hadtaught him, willy-nilly, that there are more ways than one of winning aspoiled lass for bride.

  Next day he woke with a sense of freshness and returning vigour. It waspleasant to see the steaming dishes ready for Michael and himself beforetheir riding out, pleasant to take horse and hear the Squire biddingthem God-speed, with a sharp injunction to follow the route he hadmapped out for them. But Joan had not come to say farewell.

  Just as they started, Lady Ingilby summoned Kit to her side, and behindher, in the shadow of the doorway, stood Joan.

  "She insists that you return the borrowed kerchief," said the olderwoman, with a gravity that wished to smile, it seemed.

  Kit fumbled for a moment, then brought out a battered bit of cambricthat had been through much snow and rain and tumult. The girl took it,saw dark spots of crimson in among the weather-stains, and the wholestory of the last few months was there for her to read. The tears wereso ready to fall that she flouted him again.

  "It was white when I gave it into your keeping."

  Kit, not knowing why, thought of St. Robert's cell, of Knaresborough'sparish priest and the man's kindly hold on this world and the next. "Itis whiter now," he said, with a surety that sat well on him.

  The truth of things closed round Lady Ingilby. Her big heart, motheringthese wounded gentry who came in to Ripley, had been growing week byweek in charity and knowledge. It had needed faith and pluck to playman and woman both, in her husband's absence, and now the full rewardhad come.

  Quietly, with a royal sort of dignity, she touched Kit on the shoulder."The man who can say that deserves to go find Rupert."

  While Kit wondered just what he had said, as men do when their heartshave spoken, not their lips only, Joan Grant put the kerchief in hishand again. "I should not have asked for it, had I known it was sosoiled. And yet, on second thoughts, I want it back again."

  She touched it with her lips, and gave him one glance that was to gowith him like an unanswered riddle for weeks to come. Then she wasgone; but he had the kerchief in the palm of his right hand.

  "Women are queer cattle," said Michael thoughtfully, after they hadcovered a league of the journey south.

  "They've a trick of asking riddles," asserted Kit. "For our part, we'vethe road in front of us."

  So then the elder brother knew that this baby of the flock had learnedlife's alphabet. The lad no longer carried his heart on his sleeve, buthid it from the beaks of passing daws.

  They had a journey so free of trouble that Michael began to yawn,missing the excitement that was life to him, and it was only Kit'ssteady purpose that held him from seeking some trouble by the way. Theyskirted towns and even villages, save when their horses and themselvesneeded rest and shelter for the night. Spring was soft about the land,and their track lay over pasture-land and moor, with the plover flappingoverhead, until they came into the lush country nearer south.

  When they neared Oxford--their journey as good as ended, said Michael,with a heedless yawn--Kit's horse fell lame. It was within an hour ofdark, and ahead of them the lights of a little town began to peep outone by one.

  "Best lodge yonder for the night," said Michael.

  They had planned to bivouac in the open, and be up betimes for theforward journey; but even Kit agreed that his horse needed looking to.

  Through the warm night they made their way, between hedgerows fragrantwith young leafage. All was more forward here than in the northland theyhad left, without that yap of the north-easter which is winter's dyingbark in Yoredale. Peace went beside them down the lane, and, in front,the sleepy lights reached out an invitation to them through the dusk.

  On the outskirts of the town they met a farmer jogging home.

  "What do they call the place?" asked Michael.

  "Banbury," said the farmer, with a jolly laugh; "where they keep goodale."

  "So it seems, friend. You're mellow as October."

  "Just that. Exchange was never robbery. First the ale was mellowed;then I swallowed ale, I did, and now I'm mellow, too."

  With a lurch in the saddle, and a cheery "Good night," he went his way,and Michael laughed suddenly after they had gone half a mile. "Weforgot to ask him where the good ale was housed," he explained.

  In the middle of the town they found a hostelry, and their first concernwas with Kit's horse. The ostler, an ancient fellow whose face alonewas warranty for his judgment of all horseflesh, said that the lame legwould be road-worthy again in three days, "but not a moment sooner." SoKit at once went the round of the stable, picked out the best horsethere, and said he must be saddled ready for the dawn.

  "Oh, lad, you're thorough!" chuckled Michael, as they went indoors.

  "One needs be, with Rupert only a day's ride away."

  There was only one man in the "snug" of the tavern when they entered.By the look of him, he, too, had found good ale in Banbury. Squat ofbody, unlovely of face, there was yet a twinkle in his eye, a gayindifference to his own infirmities, that appealed to Michael.

  "Give you good e'en, gentlemen. What are your politics?" asked thestranger.

  "We have none," said Kit sharply.

  "That shows your wisdom. For my part--close the door, I pray--I'm aKing's man, and have flown to drink--so much is obvious--for solace.Believe me, I was never in a town that smelt so strongly of Roundheadsas does Banbury. They meet one in the streets at every turn, and in thetaverns. One might think there was no
Royalist alive to-day inEngland."

  The man's bombast, his easy flow of speech, the intonation now and thenthat proclaimed him one of life's might-have-beens, arrested Michael.

  "Tell us more, friend," he said lazily.

  "Gladly. I need help. I am making a tour, you understand, of the chieftowns of England, staying a day or more in each, until the Muse arrives.I was ever one to hope; and, gentlemen, by the froth on my pewter-mug, Iswear that many noblemen and gentry will buy my book of verses when it'sall completed."

  "So you need our help?" asked Michael, humouring him.

  "Most urgently. I have a most diverting ditty in my head, about thistown of Banbury. It runs in this way:

  "Here I found a Puritan one Hanging of his cat on a Monday For killing of a mouse on a Sunday."

  "Good!" laughed Michael. "It's a fine conceit."

  "Ah, you've taste, sir. But the trouble is, I find no rhyme to 'Puritanone.' To find no rhyme, to a poet, is like journeying through a countrythat brews no ale. Believe me, it is heartache, this search for a goodrhyme."

  "Puri*tane* one--the lilt running that way----"

  "I have tried that, too," said the other with sorrow, "and still find norhyme."

  The door opened sharply, and the landlord bustled in. "Supper isserved, gentlemen. I trust you will not mind sharing it with someofficers of the Parliament quartered here?"

  "Nothing would please us better," assented Michael. "Will our friendhere join us, host?"

  "Oh, we none of us heed Drunken Barnaby. Leave him to his rhymes, sir."

  Yet Michael turned at the door. "I have it, Barnaby," he chuckled."Here I found a Puritane one: bid him turn and grow a sane one'--that'sthe way of it, man."

  "It rhymes," said Barnaby sadly, "but the true poetic fire is lacking.Leave me to it, gentlemen."

  As they crossed the passage Kit drew his brother aside. "Remember whatthe Squire said, Michael. We need quiet tongues and a cool head if we'reto find Rupert."

  "Youngster, I remember. That was why I played the fool to Barnaby'sgood lead. All men trust a fool."

  When they came to the parlour, they found a well-filled board, and roundit six men, big in the beam, with big, cropped heads and an air of greataloofness from this world's concerns; but they were doing very well withknife and fork. The two Metcalfs answered all questions guardedly; andall went well until Kit saw a great pie brought in, a long, flat-shapedaffair with pastry under and over, and inside, when its crust wastapped, a wealth of mincemeat of the kind housewives make at Christmas.

  "Michael, this is all like Yoredale," said Kit unguardedly. "Here's aChristmas pie."

  To his astonishment, the Puritans half rose in their seats and glancedat him as if he had the plague. "There are Royalists among us," saidone.

  "What is all this nonsense, friends?" asked Michael, with imperturbablegood temper.

  "We call it mince-meat now. None of your Christmases for us, or anyother Masses. None of Red Rome for us, I say. Banbury kills any manwho talks of Masses."

  "We've blundered somehow, Kit," whispered Michael nonchalantly.

  "Say, do you stand for the King?" asked the Roundhead. "Yes or no--doyou stand for the King?"

  "'Say, do you stand for the King?'"]

  "Why, yes," said Kit. "Come on, you six crop-headed louts."

  This was the end of Kit's solemnity, his over-serious attention toPrince Rupert's needs. And then they were in the thick of it, and theweight of the onset bore them down. When the battle ended--the tableoverturned, and three of the Roundheads under it--when Kit and Michaelcould do no more, and found themselves prisoners in the hands of theremaining three, the landlord, sleek and comfortable, bustled in.

  "I trust there is no quarrel, gentlemen?" he entreated.

  "None, as you see," said Michael airily. "We had a jest, host, aboutyour Christmas pie. They tell me none says Mass in Banbury because thetown is altogether heathen."

  So then a blow took him unawares, and when Kit and he woke next day,they found themselves in the town's prison.

  Michael touched his brother with a playful foot. "You blundered, Kit,about that Christmas pie."

  "Yes," said Christopher; "so now it's my affair, Michael, to find a wayout of prison."

  But Michael only laughed. "I wish we could find a rhyme to Puritaneone," he said. "It would help that rogue we met last night."

  The grey of early dawn stole through the window of the gaol andbrightened to a frosty red as Michael and his brother sat looking ateach other with grim pleasantry. Charged with an errand to bring PrinceRupert to the North without delay, they had won as far as thisRoundhead-ridden town, a score miles or so from their goal, and amoment's indiscretion had laid them by the heels.

  "Life's diverting, lad. I always told you so," said Michael. "It wouldhave been a dull affair, after all, if we had got to Oxford without moreado."

  "They need Rupert, yonder in York," growled Kit.

  "Ah, not so serious, lest they mistake you for a Puritan."

  "It is all so urgent, Michael."

  "True. The more need to take it lightly. Life, I tell you, runs thatway, and I know something of women by this time. Flout life, Kit, tossit aside and jest at it, and all you want comes tumbling into yourhands."

  "I brought you into this. I'll find some way out of gaol," said theother, following his own stubborn line of thought.

  The window was narrow, and three stout bars were morticed into thewalls. Moreover, their hands were doubled-tied behind them. All thatoccurred to them for the moment was to throw themselves against thedoor, each in turn, on the forlorn chance that their weight would breakit down.

  "Well?" asked Michael lazily, after their second useless assault on thedoor. "High gravity and a long face do not get us out of gaol. We'lljust sit on the wet floor, Kit, and whistle for the little imp me callChance."

  Michael tried to whistle, but broke down at sight of Kit's lugubrious,unhumorous face. While he was still laughing, there was a shuffle offootsteps outside, a grating of the rusty door-lock, and, without wordof any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them. Then the doorclosed again, the key turned in the lock, and they heard the gaolergrumbling to himself as he passed into the street.

  "Without a word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrownagainst them."]

  The new-comer picked himself up. He was dripping from head to foot; hisface, so far as the green ooze of a horse-pond let them see it, wasunlovely; but his eyes were twinkling with a merriment that wonMichael's heart.

  "Sirs, I warned you that Banbury was no good place for Cavaliers. I ampained to see you here."

  Michael remembered the man now--a fellow who had jested pleasantly withthem in the tavern just before they were taken by the Roundheads. "Weforgot your warning, Mr. Barnaby," he said drily, "so we're here."

  "I thank you, sir. Drunken Barnaby is all the address they give menowadays. Perhaps you would name me Mr. Barnaby again; it brings one'spride out of hiding."

  So then they laughed together; and friendship lies along that road. Andafter that they asked each other what had brought them to the town gaol.

  "You spoke of Christmas pie, with Puritans about you?" said DrunkenBarnaby. "I could have warned you, gentlemen, and did not. I wasalways a day behind the fair. They loathe all words that are connectedwith the Mass."

  "We have learned as much," said Michael. "For your part, Mr. Barnaby,how came you here?"

  "Oh, a trifle of ale-drinking! My heart was warm, you understand, and Iroved down Banbury street with some song of glory coming for KingCharles. I'm not warm now, but the cool o' the horse-pond has broughtme an astonishing sobriety."

  "Then tell us how to be quit of these four walls," snapped Kit, thinkingever of York and the need the city had of Prince Rupert.

  "Give me time," said Drunken Barnaby, "and a little sleep. Between theforgetting and the waking, some gift o' luck will run my way."

  "Luck!" laugh
ed Michael. "She's a good mare to ride."

  Barnaby, with his little body and the traces of the horse-pond abouthim, had seemed to the gaoler of mean account, not worth the trouble oftying by the wrists. The rogue sat up suddenly, just as he was fallingoff to sleep.

  "It is a mistake, my gentles, to disdain an adversary," he said, withthat curious air of his, roystering, pedantic in the choice of phrases,not knowing whether he were ashamed of himself and all men, or filledwith charitable laughter at their infirmities. "Our friend with theblue-bottle nose left my hands free, you observe, while yours are bound.Much water has gone into my pockets--believe me, I shall dislike allhorse-ponds in the future--but the knife-blade there will not haverusted yet."

  With a great show of strategy, still laughing at himself and them, hedrew a clasp-knife from his breeches-pocket, opened it, and cut theirthongs.

  "That's half-way on the road to Oxford," laughed Kit, rubbing the wealsabout his wrists. "It was kind of you to drink too much ale, Barnaby,and join us here."

  Michael glanced at his young brother. "Humour returns to you," he said,with an approving nod. "I told you life was not half as serious as youthought it."

  They tried the window-bars, the three of them, but found them sturdy.They battered the doorway again with their shoulders; it did not give.Barnaby drew a piece of wire from his pocket, and used great skill topick the lock; he might as well have tried to pierce steel armour with aneedle.

  "There's nothing to be done to-night, gentles," he said, with a noisyyawn; "and, when there's nothing to be done, I've found a safe andgallant rule of conduct--one sleeps. Some day, if I find the Musepropitious, I shall write an ode to sleep. It is the fabled elixir oflife. It defies all fevers of the daytime; it is the coverlet thatNature spreads about her tired children. But, gentlemen, I weary you."

  "You make me laugh," asserted Michael. "Since I left Yoredale, I've metnone who had your grasp of life."

  They settled themselves by and by to sleep, as best they could, on a wetfloor, with the warmth of the new day rousing queer odours from theirprison-house. There was the stealthy tread of rats about their bodies.It was Barnaby, after all, who was false to his gospel of deep slumber.At the end of half an hour he reached over and woke Michael from athrifty dream of Yoredale and corn yellowing to harvest.

  "What is it?" growled Michael.

  "I cannot sleep, sir. You recall that, in the tavern yesterday, Iconfessed myself a poet. The rhymes I have made, sir, are like thesands of the sea for multitude. I was never troubled till I came toBanbury."

  "Then journey forward. There are other towns."

  "You do not understand me. Towns to be taken by assault, by any rhymesthat offer, do not entice me. It is the hardship of attack that temptsyour true soldier. You will grant me that?"

  "I'll grant you anything, Barnaby, so long as you let me sleep on thiswet floor. I dreamed I was lying on a feather-bed."

  "But the rhyme? You remember how the poem went: 'Here I found a Puritanone, hanging of his cat on a Monday, for killing of a mouse on aSunday.' A fine conceit, sir, but I can find no rhyme for _Puritan_one, as I told you."

  Kit, for his part, was awake, too, and some jingle of a poem, in praiseof his mistress at Ripley in the north, was heating his brain. But thelad was learning wisdom these days, and held his peace; there was noneed to bring other men to Joan Grant by undue singing of her praises.

  "Believe me, this verse-making is a fever in the blood," protestedBarnaby. "Naught serves until the rhyme is found. It is a madness,like love of a lad for a maid. There is no rhyme to Puritan."

  "Friend," said Michael, "I need sleep, if you do not. Remember what Isaid last night. Puri*tane* one--try it that way. Get your man roundto the King's cause, and he becomes a _sane one_."

  "But, sir----"

  Michael smiled happily. "We have a saying in Yoredale: 'I canna helpyour troubles, friend; I've enough of my own.' Take it or leave it atPuri*tane* one. For myself, I'm going to sleep."

  Barnaby sat wrestling with the Muse. His mind, like all men's, was fullof hidden byways, and the most secret of them all was this lane that ledinto the garden of what, to him, was poetry. A tramp on life's highway,a drinker at taverns and what not, it was his foible that he would beremembered by his jingling verses--as, indeed, he was, centuries afterthe mould had settled over his unknown grave.

  It might be five minutes later, or ten, that Kit stirred in sleep, thensat bolt upright. He heard steps on the cobbled street outside, theturning of a rusty key in the lock. Then the door opened, and he sawthe squat figure of the gaoler, framed by a glimpse of Banbury street,grey and crimson in the clean light of the new day. Without haste hegot to his feet, stretched himself to the top of his great height, thenwent and picked the gaoler up and swung him to and fro lightly, as if hewere a child.

  "Michael," he said, "what shall we do with this fellow? Michael, wake,I tell you!"

  When Michael came out of his sleep, and Drunken Barnaby out of hisrhyming, they sat in judgment on the gaoler. They tried him for hightreason to King Charles. They sentenced him to detention in HisMajesty's gaol _sine die_, and went into the street, locking the doorbehind them.

  "You shall have the key, Mr. Barnaby," said Michael. "Release him whenand how you like. For ourselves, we ride to Oxford."

  "Nay, you walk," said Barnaby, with great solemnity. "Oh, I know yourbreed! You're all for going to the tavern for your horses. It will notdo, gentles. The town is thick with Roundheads."

  "How can we walk twenty miles, with our errand a day or two oldalready?" said Kit.

  "Beggars must foot it, when need asks. Do you want to sing 'ChristmasPie' again all down Banbury street, and have your errand spoiled?Listen, sirs. This town does not suit my health just now; it does notsuit yours. Permit me to guide you out of it along a byway that Iknow."

  Kit was impatient for the risk, so long as they found horses; butMichael saw the wisdom underlying Barnaby's counsel. The three of themset out, along a cart-track first, that led between labourers' cottageson one hand and a trim farmstead on the other, then into the openfields. A league further on they struck into the Oxford highway, anempty riband of road, with little eddies of dust blown about by thefingers of the quiet breeze.

  "Here we part, gentles," said Barnaby, with his air of humorouspedantry. "Oxford is for kings and prelates. I know my station, and mythirst for a brew of ale they have four miles over yonder hill."

  They could not persuade him that, drunk or sober, he had rescued themfrom Banbury, that they would be glad of his further company. He turnedonce, after bidding them farewell, and glanced at Kit with his merryhazel eyes. "I've got that song of Banbury," he said. "It all came tome when I saw you dandling the gaoler with the blue-bottle nose. Strifeand battle always helped the poets of a country, sir, since Homer'stime."

  "There goes a rogue," laughed Michael, listening to the man's song ofBanbury as he went chanting it up the rise. "Well, I've known worsefolk, and he untied our hands."