Oxford¹ was keeping holiday. The Queen, sure that her husband was facing trouble at too short a range, persuaded him—for her own pleasure, she asserted—to hold a pageant² in a field on the outskirts³ of the city. It was good, she said, that well-looking cavaliers should have a chance of preening⁴ their feathers until this dull waiting-time was over—good that tired ladies of the Court should get away from men's jealousies⁵ and wrangles⁶, and air their graces. So a masque had been written and arranged within a week, the zest⁷ in it running side by side with the constant expectation of the Metcalfs' coming.  
The masque was fixed⁸ for twelve o'clock; and, an hour before noon, the company of players began to ride up the High Street on their way to the playing field. Mary of Scots passed badinage⁹ with a Franciscan friar as they rode in company; a jester went by, tickling¹⁰ Cardinal¹¹ Wolsey in the ribs¹² until the great crowd lining¹³ either side the street laughed uproariously. The day was in keeping with it all—sunlight on the storied houses, lush fragrance¹⁵ of the lilac, the song of birds from every branch of every tree.
 
From up the street there came, sudden as a thunder-clap, the clash of horses' feet. The masqueraders drew aside, to right and left, with little heed¹⁶ for wayfarers¹⁷. And down the lane, bordered thick with faces, there came a band of men who did not ride for pageantry.
 
In front of them—he had been thrust into leadership by the Squire¹⁸ of Nappa, who had guessed his ambition and his dream—rode a little man on a little, wiry mare¹⁹. Blood was dripping from a wound on his cheek; his right arm hung limp. He did not seem to be aware of all this disarray²⁰, but rode as a conqueror²¹ might do. The dream sufficed him.
 
A draper in the crowd, whose heart was bigger than the trade that hemmed²² him in, raised a strident cry: "Why, it's little Blake! Wounds over him, from head to foot—but it's little Blake."
 
And then Blake's dream came true. To the full he tasted the incense²³ of men's praise, long worked for, yet unsought. All down the High Street the running murmur²⁴ went that Blake was here; and the people saw his wounds, the gay, courageous²⁵ smile in answer to their greeting, and their cheers redoubled.
 
The pageant-makers, thrust aside by the steady, uncompromising trot²⁶ of the Metcalfs, lost their first irritation—forgot the boredom²⁷ that had settled on them during these idle days—and raised a cheer as lusty as the townfolks'. The street was one sunlit length of white horses moving forward briskly, four by four; the big men on them were white with dust, and ruddier splashes of the warfare²⁸ at Banbury showed here and there. It was as if the days of old were back again, and Northmen riding, with a single heart and purpose, to a second Flodden. They moved, not as six-score men, but as one; and when the old Squire drew rein²⁹ presently, they, too, pulled up, answering the sharp command as a sword answers to the master's hand.
 
"By your leave, sir," said the Squire, "we come in search of Prince Rupert. Can you direct us to his lodging³⁰?"
 
It happened that it was Digby he addressed—Digby of the soft voice, the face like a cherub's, and the tongue of an old, soured woman. "I could not say," he answered. Of all the Cavaliers there, he only was unmoved by the strength and fine simplicity³¹ of these riders into Oxford. "If I were aware where the Duchess of Richmond is to be found, I could direct you."
 
A stormy light came into the Squire's grey eyes. "We have heard of the Duchess. Her name is fragrant³² in the North, sir, save where ostlers gather at the tavern³³ and pass gossip on for gaping³⁴ yokels³⁵."
 
"Countered, you dandy!" laughed Digby's neighbour. "Grooms³⁶ in Oxford and grooms in the North—hey, where's the difference?"
 
"We shall prove it, sir, at dawn to-morrow," said Digby, his hand slipping to his sword-hilt.
 
"Oh, content. I always liked to slit³⁷ a lie in two, and see the two halves writhe³⁸ and quiver."
 
The Squire of Nappa, looking at these two, guessed where the danger of the King's cause lay. Men see clearly when heart and soul and purpose are as one. If two of his own company had offered and accepted such a duel³⁹ openly, he would have taken them, one in either hand, and knocked their heads together, in the interests of discipline. In Oxford, it seemed usual that private differences should take precedence of the King's service, and the Squire felt chilled for the first time since he rode out from Yoredale.
 
Prince Rupert had shared a late breakfast with the Duke of Richmond and the Duchess, who was, in heart and soul, a great lady beyond the reach of paltry⁴⁰ malice⁴¹. Rupert was moody⁴², irritable⁴³. He was sick for pageantry in the doing—gallop⁴⁴ of his cavalry⁴⁵ with swords glancing on Roundhead skulls⁴⁶—blows given for the health of the reigning⁴⁷ King, instead of play-acting to the memory of buried monarchs⁴⁸. He was passionately⁴⁹ disdainful of this pageant in which he was to play a part, though at the moment he was donning mediaeval armour⁵⁰.
 
"I should have held aloof⁵¹ from it all," he protested.
 
"No," said the Duchess. "There could have been no pageantry without you. Believe me, it is good for us to have action, if only in the playing—it lights dull days for us."
 
Rupert strode up and down the floor with his restless, long-legged stride. "I'm to figure as Richard the Crusader," he said, tired of himself and all things. "I ask you, friends, do I show like a Crusader?"
 
"Your temper of the moment does not, but a man's past goes with him," she broke in, with her soft, infectious laugh. "Of all the King's gentlemen I know, my husband here, and you, stand nearest to the fine crusading days. To please us both, you will play your part?"
 
Rupert was beyond reach of blandishment. There was a fire from the over-world about him; men and women grew small in the perspective, and only the vigour⁵² and abiding⁵³ zeal⁵⁴ he had for the King's service remained to guide him, like a taper⁵⁵ shining through a night of trouble.
 
"Friends," he said, simply as a child, "I had a dream last night. I dreamed that prayers were answered at long last, and that the sea rode into Oxford—a gallant⁵⁶ sea, creamed with white horses riding fast."
 
"How should that be?" laughed the Duke. "It was a tired man's dream."
 
"It was more," said Rupert sharply. "It was a true vision of the days to come. I tell you, the white horses rode into Oxford like a crested⁵⁷ sea. I knew they came to help me, and I grew tired of pageantry." He smiled at his own gravity, and reached out for his Crusader's sword. "Come," he broke off, "Coeur de Lion should be punctual to the tryst⁵⁸."
 
They came into the High Street, the three of them; and Rupert checked his horse with a thrill of wo............