They had not gone seven miles before they heard, wide on their bridle-hand, the braying1 of a donkey. It was not a casual braying, but a persistent2, wild appeal that would not be denied.
"Brother calls to brother," said Michael, with his diverting obedience3 to superstition4. "One of his kind helped me into York. We'll see what ails5 him."
They crossed a strip of barren moor6, and came to a hollow where some storm of wind and lightning had long since broken a fir coppice into matchwood. And here, at the edge of the dead trunks and the greening bracken, they found five of their kinsmen7 hemmed8 in by fourteen stiff-built rascals9 who carried pikes. On the outskirts10 of the battle a donkey was lifting her head in wild appeal.
With speed and certainty, Michael and his brother crashed down into the fight. The surprise, the fury of assault, though two horsemen only formed the rescue-party, settled the issue. And in this, had they known it, the Metcalfs were but proving that they had learned amid country peace what Rupert had needed years of soldiery to discover—the worth of a cavalry11 attack that is swift and tempestuous12 in the going.
"We thought you far on the road to Prince Rupert," said the Squire13 of Nappa, cleaning his sword-blade on a tuft of grass.
"So we should have been, sir, but we happened into Knaresborough. Kit14 here swooned for love of a lady—on my faith, the daintiest lass from this to Yoredale—and I could not drag him out until—until, you understand, the elder brother stepped in and made havoc15 of a heart that Kit 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 against Michael's hand. "Good lass!" he said. "If it hadn't been for your gift of song, and my own luck, there'd have been five Metcalfs less to serve His Majesty16."
The old Squire pondered a while, between wrath17 and laughter. "That is true," he said, in his big, gusty18 voice. "I always said there was room in the world, and a welcome, for even the donkey tribe. Kit, you look lean and harassed19. Tell us what happened yonder in Knaresborough."
Kit told them, in a brief, soldierly fashion that found gruff approval from the Squire; but Michael, rubbing the donkey's snout, must needs intrude20 his levity21.
"He forgets the better half of the story, sir. When we got inside the Castle, the prettiest eyes seen out of Yoredale smiled at him. And the lad went daft and swooned, as I told you—on my honour, he did—and the lady bound his shoulder-wound for him. A poor nurse, she; it was his heart 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 ambush22; and the Squire explained that a company of Roundheads had come in force to Ripley, that they had roused a busy hive of Metcalfs there, that in the wild pursuit he and four of his clan23 had outdistanced their fellows and had found themselves hemmed in. And in this, had he known it, there was a foreshadowing of the knowledge Rupert was to learn later on—that with the strength of headlong cavalry attack, there went the corresponding weakness. It was hard to refrain from undue24 pursuit, once the wine of speed had got into the veins25 of men and horses both.
"We're here at the end of it all," laughed the old Squire, "and that's the test of any venture."
"Our gospel, sister," said Michael, fondling the donkey's ears, "though, by the look of your sleek26 sides, you've thrived the better on it."
The Squire took Kit aside and drew the whole story from him of what he hoped to do in this search for Rupert. And he saw in the boy's face what the parish priest of Knaresborough had seen—the light that knows no counterfeit27.
"So, Kit, you're for the high crusade! Hold your dream fast. I've had many of them in my time, and lost them by the way."
"But the light is so clear," said Kit, tempted28 into open confidence.
"Storms brew29 up, and the light is there, but somehow sleet30 o' the world comes 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, 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 undoubtedly31 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," assented32 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, imperative33 way, and tapped Christopher on the shoulder—the wounded shoulder, as it happened.
"Fie, sir, to wince35 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 galloping36 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 rein37. A messenger came in an hour ago. The Prince is not in Lancashire, as we had hoped. He is still in Oxford38—I can confirm your news on that head—lighting small jealousies39 and worries. Rupert, a man to his finger-tips, is fighting indoor worries, as if he were a household drudge40. The pity of it, gentlemen!"
It was easy to understand how this woman had been a magnet who drew good Cavaliers to Ripley. Heart and soul, she was for the King. The fire leaped out to warm all true soldiers of his Majesty, to consume all half-way men. She stood there now, her eyes full of wonder and dismay that they could keep Rupert yonder in Oxford when England was listening for the thunder of his cavalry.
Joan Grant had not heard the incoming of the Metcalfs. She had been ill and shaken, after a vivid dream that had wakened her last night, and changed sleep to purgatory41. And now, weary of herself, prisoned by the stifled42 air indoors, she came through the Castle gate. There might be battle in the open, as there had been earlier in the day; but at least there would be fresh air.
Michael saw her step into the sunlight, and he gave no sign that his heart was beating furiously. Deep under his levity was the knowledge that his life from this moment forward was to be settled by the direction 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 reticence43 had left her, she went straight to Christopher's side.
"Sir, you are wounded," she said, simple as any cottage-maid.
For the rest of the day Michael was obsessed44 by gaiety. Whenever the Squire began to talk of Rupert, to map out their route to Oxford, Michael interposed some senseless jest that set the round-table conference in a roar.
"Best go groom45 the donkey," snapped the Squire at last. "If ever the Prince 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 about the windows, Christopher met Joan Grant on the stairway. He was tired of wounds that nagged46 him, and he needed bed. She was intent on drowning sleeplessness47 among the old tomes in the library—a volume of sermons would serve best, she thought.
They met; and, because the times were full of speed and battle, she was the cottage maid again. All women are when the tempest batters48 down the frail49 curtains that hide the gentle from the lowly-born. "Was she very good to see?" she asked, remembering her last night's vision—it had been more than a dream, she knew.
So Kit, a rustic50 lad in his turn, flushed and asked what she meant. And she set the quibble aside, and told him what her dream was. She pictured Kharesborough—though her waking eyes had never seen the town—spoke51 of the gun-flare that had crossed the window-panes sometimes, while a girl watched beside his pillow.
"I was weak with my wounds," said Kit, not questioning the nearness of this over-world that had intruded52 into the everyday affairs of siege and battle.
"How direct you Metcalfs are! And the next time you are wounded there will be a nurse, and you'll grow weak again, till your heart is broken in every town that holds a garrison53."
"I leave that to Michael," he said quietly.
All that he had done—for the King, and for the light he had watched so often 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 in our regard—easy-going when he's not needed, but an angel on a fiery54 horse 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 worth the knowing during the past months. He was master of himself, not wayward to the call of any woman.
"We're bidding farewell," she said.
"Yes," said Christopher. "To-morrow we set out for Oxford. Do you remember 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. He would have called her back if pride had let him.
Then he went slowly up to bed, wondering that some freak of temper had bidden him speak at random55. For an hour it was doubtful whether tiredness or the fret56 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 had taught him, willy-nilly, that there are more ways than one of winning a spoiled lass for bride.
Next day he woke with a sense of freshness and returning vigour57. It was pleasant to see the steaming dishes ready for Michael and himself before their riding out, pleasant to take horse and hear the Squire bidding them God-speed, with a sharp injunction to follow the route he had mapped out for them. But Joan had not come to say farewell.
Just as they started, Lady Ingilby summoned Kit to her side, and behind her, in the shadow of the doorway58, stood Joan.
"She insists that you return the borrowed kerchief," said the older woman, with a gravity that wished to smile, it seemed.
Kit fumbled59 for a moment, then brought out a battered60 bit of cambric that had been through much snow and rain and tumult61. The girl took it, saw dark spots of crimson62 in among the weather-stains, and the whole story of the last few months was there for her to read. The tears were so ready to fall that she flouted64 him again.
"It was white when I gave it into your keeping."
Kit, not knowing why, thought of St. Robert's cell, of Knaresborough's parish priest and the man's kindly65 hold on this world and the next. "It is whiter now," he said, with a surety that sat well on him.
The truth of things closed round Lady Ingilby. Her big heart, mothering these wounded gentry66 who came in to Ripley, had been growing week by week in charity and knowledge. It had needed faith and pluck to play man and woman both, in her husband's absence, and now the full reward had 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 hearts have spoken, not their lips only, Joan Grant put the kerchief in his hand again. "I should not have asked for it, had I known it was so soiled. And yet, on second thoughts, I want it back again."
She touched it with her lips, and gave him one glance that was to go with him like an unanswered riddle67 for weeks to come. Then she was gone; but he had the kerchief in the palm of his right hand.
"Women are queer cattle," said Michael thoughtfully, after they had covered a league of the journey south.
"They've a trick of asking riddles," asserted Kit. "For our part, we've the road in front of us."
So then the elder brother knew that this baby of the flock had learned life's alphabet. The lad no longer carried his heart on his sleeve, but hid it from the beaks68 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's steady purpose that held him from seeking some trouble by the way. They skirted towns and even villages, save when their horses and themselves needed rest and shelter for the night. Spring was soft about the land, and their track lay over pasture-land and moor, with the plover69 flapping overhead, 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 lame71. It was within an hour of dark, and ahead of them the lights of a little town began to peep out one by one.
"Best lodge72 yonder for the night," said Michael.
They had planned to bivouac in the open, and be up betimes for the forward journey; but even Kit agreed that his horse needed looking to.
Through the warm night they made their way, between hedgerows fragrant73 with young leafage. All was more forward here than in the northland they had left, without that yap of the north-easter which is winter's dying bark 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 good ale."
"So it seems, friend. You're mellow74 as October."
"Just that. Exchange was never robbery. First the ale was mellowed75; then I swallowed ale, I did, and now I'm mellow, too."
With a lurch76 in the saddle, and a cheery "Good night," he went his way, and Michael laughed suddenly after they had gone half a mile. "We forgot to ask him where the good ale was housed," he explained.
In the middle of the town they found a hostelry, and their first concern was with Kit's horse. The ostler, an ancient fellow whose face alone was warranty
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