Michael was in high spirits as he rode for York with Christopher. He wore Puritan raiment, and it was troublesome to keep his steeple-hat safely on his head; but the wine of adventure was in his veins¹, and clothing mattered little.  
"Once into York, my lad," he said, breaking a long silence, "and we shall get our fill of turmoil². There'll be sorties and pitched battle when Rupert comes."
 
Kit³ was always practical when he had his brother for companion. "We are not into York as yet. What plan have you, Michael?"
 
"My usual plan—to trust to luck. She's a bonnie mare⁴ to ride, I tell you."
 
"But the papers we took from the three Roundheads in the tavern—we had best know what they pledge us to."
 
"The Prince was right, after all. He said that you would steady me. It is odd, Kit, but it never entered my daft head to look at the papers; it was enough that they were our passport."
 
They drew rein⁵, and Michael ran his eye down the papers. "They say that Rupert is marching fast for the relief of York—that will be no news to them by this time—that the Prince has inflicted⁶ disastrous⁷ reverses on their cause, at Bolton and by relieving Lathom House, and that, at any cost of life, York must be reduced before his coming. Oh, my lad, how all this plays into Rupert's hands!"
 
There was only one weakness in Michael's gay assurance that all was speeding well. When they reached the outposts of the enemy's lines, their way led them, as it chanced, to that quarter of the city which the Scots beleaguered⁸. Their garb⁹, Michael's peremptory¹⁰ demand that the sentry¹¹ should pass them forward to the officer in command, backed up by showing of his papers, had their effect. It was when they found themselves in the presence of five Parliament officers, seated at a trestle table ill supplied with food, that they began to doubt the venture.
 
"Who are these?" asked one of the five, regarding the strangers with mingled¹³ humour and contempt.
 
"They were passed forward by the sentry, Captain. That is all I know."
 
"Who are they?" laughed a young lieutenant¹⁴. "Why, Puritans, both of them, and preachers, too, by the look of their wearing-gear. It needs no papers to prove that."
 
Michael was always steadied by surprise. They had garbed¹⁵ themselves so carefully; they were acknowledged as friends of the Parliament cause; he was at a loss to understand the chilliness¹⁶ of their reception. "Puritans undoubtedly," he said, with a hint of his old levity¹⁷, "but we've never been found guilty of the charge of preaching."
 
Captain Fraser glanced through the papers, and his air of rude carelessness changed. "This is of prime importance. By the Bruce, sirs, the Parliament has chosen odd-looking messengers, but I thank you for the bringing of your news."
 
Within ten minutes the Metcalfs were ushered¹⁸ into the presence of a cheery, thick-set man, who proved to be Leslie, the general in command of the Scots. He, too, read the papers with growing interest.
 
"H'm, this is good news," he muttered. "At any cost of life. That leaves me free. I've been saying for weeks past that famine and dissensions among ourselves will raise the siege, without any intervention¹⁹ from Prince Rupert. Your name, sir?" he asked, turning sharply to Michael.
 
Michael, by some odd twist of memory, recalled Banbury and the name of a townsman who had given him much trouble there. "Ebenezer Drinkwater, at your service."
 
"And, gad²⁰, you look it! Your face is its own credential. Well, Mr. Drinkwater, you have my thanks. Go seek what food you can find in camp—there may be devilled rat, or stewed²¹ dog, or some such dainty left."
 
Kit, who did not share his brother's zest²² in this play of intrigue²³, had a quick impulse to knock down the general in command, without thought of the consequences. The insolence²⁴ of these folk was fretting²⁵ his temper into ribbons.
 
"Come, brother," said Michael, after a glance at the other's face. "We can only do our work, not needing praise nor asking it. Virtue²⁶, we are told, is in itself reward."
 
A gruff oath from Leslie told him that he was acting²⁷ passably well; and they went out, Kit and he, with freedom to roam unmolested up and down the lines.
 
"What is your plan?" asked Kit impatiently.
 
"We must bide²⁸ till sundown, and that's an hour away. Meanwhile, lad, we shall keep open ears and quiet tongues."
 
They went about the camp, and everywhere met ridicule²⁹ and a hostility³⁰ scarcely veiled; but there was a strife³¹ of tongues abroad, and from many scattered³² drifts of talk they learned the meaning of the odd welcome they had found. The Scots, it seemed, had found the rift³³ grow wider between themselves and the English who were besieging³⁴ York's two other gates. The rift had been slight enough when the first joy of siege, the hope of reducing the good city, had fired their hearts. Week by week had gone by, month after month; hunger and a fierce drought had eaten bare the countryside, and hardships are apt to eat through the light upper-crust of character.
 
The Metcalfs learned that the dour³⁵ Scots and the dour Puritans were at enmity in the matter of religion; and this astonished them, for they did not know how deep was the Scottish instinct for discipline and order in their Church affairs. They learned, too—and this was voiced more frequently—that they resented the whole affair of making war upon a Stuart king. They had been dragged into the business, somehow; but ever at their hearts—hearts laid bare by privation and ill-health—there was the song of the Stuarts, bred by Scotland to sit on the English throne and to grace it with great comeliness³⁷.
 
It was astounding³⁸ to the Metcalfs, this heart of a whole army bared to the daylight. There had been skirmishes, they heard, between Lord Fairfax's men and the Scots. The quarrel was based ostensibly on some matter of foraging³⁹ in each other's country; but it was plain that the Scots were glad of any excuse which offered—plain that they were more hostile to their allies than to the common enemy. Then, too, there was mutiny breeding among the soldiery, because their scanty⁴⁰ pay was useless for the purchase of food at famine prices.
 
"We must find a way in," said Michael by and by. "The garrison⁴² should know all this at once. They could sortie without waiting for the Prince's coming."
 
The Barbican at Micklegate was too formidable an affair to undertake. What Michael sought was some quieter way of entry. They had reached the edge of the Scottish lines by now. The clear, red light showed them that odd neck of land bounded by Fosse Water and the Ouse, showed them the Castle, with Clifford's Tower standing⁴³ stark⁴⁴ and upright like a sentry who kept watch and ward¹². Within that neck of land were Royalists who waited for the message, as lovers wait at a stile for a lady over-late.
 
"We must win in," said Michael.
 
"Well, brothers," said a gruff voice behind them, "are you as sick to get into York as we are? You're late come to the siege, by the well-fed look of you."
 
"Just as sick," assented⁴⁵ Michael cheerfully. "By the look of you, you're one of Lord Fairfax's men at Walmgate Bar. Well, it is pleasant to be among good Puritans again, after the cold welcome given us by the Scots at Micklegate."
 
So then the trooper talked to them as brother talks to brother. Within five minutes they learned all that the English thought of their Scottish allies, and what they thought would not look comely⁴⁶ if set down on paper.
 
Michael warmed to the humour of it. The man with the heart of a Cavalier and the raiment of a Puritan hears much that is useful from the adversary⁴⁷. He told of their late errand, the safe delivery of their papers, and the contents. He explained—confidentially, as friend to friend—that he had an errand of strategy, and must get into York before sundown. Was there any quiet way of entry?
 
"Well, there's what they call a postern gate nigh handy," said the trooper, with the burr in his speech that any Wharfedale man would have known. "D'ye hear the mill-sluice roaring yonder? Though it beats me how she can roar at all, after all this droughty season."
 
"It has been a dry time and a dreary⁴⁸ for our friends," put in Michael, with unctuous⁴⁹ sympathy.
 
"Drear? I believe ye. If I'd known what war and siege meant, the King might have bided⁵⁰ at Whitehall for ever—Star Chamber⁵¹ taxes or no— for aught I cared. At first it rained everything, save ale and victuals⁵²; and then, for weeks on end, it droughted. There's no sense in such weather."
 
"But the cause, friend—the cause. What is hardship compared with the Parliament's need?"
 
"Parliament is as Parliament does. For my part, I've got three teeth aching, to my knowledge, and other-some beginning to nag⁵³. You're a preacher, by the look o' ye. Well, spend a week i' the trenches⁵⁴, and see how it fares with preaching. There's no lollipops⁵⁵ about this cursed siege o' York."
 
Kit could only marvel⁵⁶ at his brother's grave rebuke⁵⁷, at the quietness with which he drew this man into talk—drew him, too, along the bank of Fosse Water till they stood in the deafening⁵⁸ uproar⁵⁹ of the weir⁶⁰.
 
"There's the postern yonder," said the trooper—"Fishgate Postern, they call it. Once you're through on your errand, ye gang over Castle Mills Brigg, and the durned Castle stands just beyond."
 
Michael nodded a good-day and a word of thanks, and hammered at the postern gate. A second summons roused the sentry, who opened guardedly.
 
"Who goes there?" he asked, with a sleepy hiccough.
 
Kit thrust his foot into the door, put his whole weight against it, and only the slowness of rusty⁶¹ hinges saved the sentry from an untimely end. "You can talk well, Michael, but give me the doing of it," he growled⁶².
 
Kit gripped the sentry, neck and crop, while Michael bolted the door. Then they pushed their captive across Mills Bridge, and found themselves in the evening glow that lay over St. George's Field. For a moment they were bewildered. The roar of the mill-sluice had been in their ears so lately that the quietness within York's walls was a thing oppressive. The sounds of distant uproar came to them, but these were like echoes only, scarce ruffling⁶⁴ the broad charity and peace of the June eventide. They could not believe that eleven thousand loyalists, horse and foot, were gathered between the city's ramparts.
 
The sentry, sobered by the suddenness of the attack and Kit's rough handling, asked bluntly what their business was. "It's as much as my skin is worth, all this. Small blame to me, say I, if I filled that skin a trifle over-full. Liquor is the one thing plentiful⁶⁵ in this cursed city. What is your business?"
 
"Simple enough," said Michael. "Go find my Lord Newcastle and tell him two Puritans are waiting for him. They are tired of laying siege to York, and have news for his private ear."
 
"A likely tale!"
 
"Likelier than being throttled⁶⁶ where you stand. You run less risk the other way. What is the password for the day?"
 
"Rupert of the Rhine," said the other sullenly⁶⁷.
 
"That's a good omen⁶³, then. Come, man, pluck your heart out of your boots and tell Lord Newcastle that we knocked on the gate and gave the counter-sign. Tell him we wait his pleasure. We shall shadow you until you do the errand."
 
The sentry had a gift of seeing the common sense of any situation. He knew that Newcastle was in the Castle, closeted with his chief officers in deliberation over the dire⁶⁸ straits of the city; and he went in search of him.
 
Newcastle listened to his tale of two big Puritans—preachers, by the look of them—who had found entry through the postern by knowledge of the password. "So they wait our pleasure, do they?" said Newcastle irascibly. "Go tell them that when my gentlemen of York go out to meet the Puritans, it will be beyond the city gates. Tell them that spies and informers must conform to their livery, and come to us, not we to them. If they dispute the point—why, knock their skulls⁶⁹ together and pitch them into Castle Weir."
 
"They are big, and there are two of them, my lord."
 
A droll⁷⁰ Irishman of the company broke into a roar of laughter. The sentry's face was so woebegone, his statement of fact so pithy⁷¹, that even Newcastle smiled grimly. "Soften⁷² the message, then, but bring them in."
 
To the sentry's astonishment⁷³, the two Puritans came like lambs at his bidding; and after they were safely ushered into the Castle dining-hall, the sentry mutely thanked Providence⁷⁴ for his escape, and went in search of further liquor. As a man of common sense, he reasoned that there would be no second call to-night at a postern that had stood un-challenged for these three weeks past.
 
Michael, when he came into the room, cast a quick glance round the company. He saw Newcastle and Eythin, and a jolly, red-faced Irishman, and many others; and memory ran back along the haps⁷⁵ and mishaps⁷⁶ of warfare⁷⁷ in the open to a night when he had swum Ouse River and met just this band of gentlemen at table. He pulled his steeple-hat over his eyes and stood there, his shoulders drooping⁷⁸, his hands crossed in front of him.
 
"Well," demanded Newcastle, his temper raw and unstable⁷⁹ through long caring for the welfare of his garrison. "If we are to discuss any business, you may remove your quaint⁸⁰ head-gear, sirs. My equals uncover, so you may do as much."
 
"Puritans do not, my lord," Michael interrupted. "What are men that we should uncover to them?"
 
"Men circumstanced as we are have a short way and a ready with cant⁴¹ and steeple-headed folk."
 
"Yet the password," insisted the other gently. "Rupert of the Rhine. It has a pleasant sound. They say he is near York's gates, and it was we who brought him."
 
The Irishman, thinking him mad or drunk, or both, and irritated beyond bearing by his smooth, oily speech, reached forward and knocked his hat half across the room.
 
"Oh, by the saints!" he roared; "here's the rogue⁸¹ who came in last spring, pretty much in the clothes he was born in, after swimming Ouse River—the jolly rogue who swore he'd find Rupert for us."
 
"At your service, gentlemen—as dry as I was wet when we last encountered. Will none of you fill me a brimmer?"
 
Lord Newcastle, if something raw in experience of warfare and its tactics, was a great-hearted man of his world, with a lively humour and a sportsman's relish⁸² for adventure. He filled the brimmer himself, and watched Michael drain half of it at one thirsty, pleasant gulp⁸³. "Now for your news," he said.
 
"Why, my lord, I pledged the Metcalf honour that we'd bring Rupert to you, and he lies no further off than Knaresborough."
 
"Good," laughed the Irishman. "I said you could trust a man who swore by the sword he happened not to be carrying at the moment."
 
"And your friend?" asked Newcastle, catching⁸⁴ sight of Ch............