they had not gone seven miles before they heard, wide on their bridle-hand, the braying of a donkey. it was not a casual braying, but a persistent, wild appeal that would not be denied.
"brother calls to brother," said michael, with his diverting obedience to superstition. "one of his kind helped me into york. we'll see what ails him."
they crossed a strip of barren moor, 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 kinsmen hemmed in by fourteen stiff-built rascals who carried pikes. on the outskirts 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 cavalry attack that is swift and tempestuous in the going.
"we thought you far on the road to prince rupert," said the squire of nappa, cleaning his sword-blade on a tuft of grass.
"so we should have been, sir, but we happened into knaresborough. kit 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 havoc 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 majesty."
the old squire pondered a while, between wrath and laughter. "that is true," he said, in his big, gusty voice. "i always said there was room in the world, and a welcome, for even the donkey tribe. kit, you look lean and harassed. 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 intrude his levity.
"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 ambush; 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 clan 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 undue pursuit, once the wine of speed 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's the 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 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 counterfeit.
"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, tempted into open confidence.
"storms brew up, and the light is there, but somehow sleet 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 undoubtedly 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," assented 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, imperative way, and tapped christopher on the shoulder—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 hour ago. the prince is not in lancashire, as we had hoped. he is still in oxford—i can confirm your news on that head—lighting small jealousies and worries. rupert, a man to his finger-tips, is fighting indoor worries, 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 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 purgatory. and now, weary of herself, prisoned by the stifled 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 reticence 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 obsessed 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 groom 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 nagged him, and he needed bed. she was intent on drowning sleeplessness 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 batters down the frail 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 rustic 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—spoke 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 intruded 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 garrison."
"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 fiery 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 random. for an hour it was doubtful whether tiredness 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 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 vigour. 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 doorway, stood joan.
"she insists that you return the borrowed kerchief," said the older woman, with a gravity that wished to smile, it seemed.
kit fumbled for a moment, then brought out a battered bit of cambric that 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 whole story of the last few months was there for her to read. the tears were so 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's parish priest and the man's kindly 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 gentry 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 riddle 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 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'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 plover 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 lame. 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 lodge 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 fragrant 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 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. "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 for his judgment of all horseflesh, said that the lame leg would be road-worthy again in three days, "but not a moment sooner." so kit at once went the round of the stable, picked out the best horse there, 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 of body, unlovely of face, there was yet a twinkle in his eye, a gay indifference to his own infirmities, that appealed to michael.
"give you good e'en, gentlemen. what are your politics?" asked the stranger.
"we have none," said kit sharply.
"that shows your wisdom. for my part—close the door, i pray—i'm a king'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 roundheads as does banbury. they meet one in the streets at every turn, and in the taverns. one might think there was no royalist alive to-day in england."
the man's bombast, his easy flow of speech, the intonation now and then that 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 chief towns 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, i swear that many noblemen and gentry will buy my book of verses when it's all completed."
"so you need our help?" asked michael, humouring him.
"most urgently. i have a most diverting ditty in my head, about this town 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 'puritan one.' to find no rhyme, to a poet, is like journeying through a country that brews no ale. believe me, it is heartache, this search for a good rhyme."
"puri*tane* one—the lilt running that way——"
"i have tried that, too," said the other with sorrow, "and still find no rhyme."
the door opened sharply, and the landlord bustled in. "supper is served, gentlemen. i trust you will not mind sharing it with some officers of the parliament quartered here?"
"nothing would please us better," assented michael. "will our friend here 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's the 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 what the squire said, michael. we need quiet tongues and a cool head if we're to find rupert."
"youngster, i remember. that was why i played the fool to barnaby's good lead. all men trust a fool."
when they came to the parlour, they found a well-filled board, and round it six men, big in the beam, with big, cropped heads and an air of great aloofness from this world's concerns; but they were doing very well with knife and fork. the two metcalfs answered all questions guardedly; and all went well until kit saw a great pie brought in, a long, flat-shaped affair with pastry under and over, and inside, when its crust was tapped, a wealth of mincemeat of the kind housewives make at christmas.
"michael, this is all like yoredale," said kit unguardedly. "here's a christmas pie."
to his astonishment, the puritans half rose in their seats and glanced at him as if he had the plague. "there are royalists among us," said one.
"what is all this nonsense, friends?" asked michael, with imperturbable good temper.
"we call it mince-meat now. none of your christmases for us, or any other masses. none of red rome for us, i say. banbury kills any man who talks of masses."
"we've blundered somehow, kit," whispered michael nonchalantly.
"say, do you stand for the king?" asked the roundhead. "yes or no—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 to prince rupert's needs. and then they were in the thick of it, and the weight of the onset bore them down. when the battle ended—the table overturned, and three of the roundheads under it—when kit and michael could do no more, and found themselves prisoners in the hands of the remaining 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, about your christmas pie. they tell me none says mass in banbury because the town 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 way out of prison."
but michael only laughed. "i wish we could find a rhyme to puritane one," he said. "it would help that rogue we met last night."
the grey of early dawn stole through the window of the gaol and brightened to a frosty red as michael and his brother sat looking at each other with grim pleasantry. charged with an errand to bring prince rupert to the north without delay, they had won as far as this roundhead-ridden town, a score miles or so from their goal, and a moment's indiscretion had laid them by the heels.
"life's diverting, lad. i always told you so," said michael. "it would have been a dull affair, after all, if we had got to oxford without more ado."
"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 that way, and i know something of women by this time. flout life, kit, toss it aside and jest at it, and all you want comes tumbling into your hands."
"i brought you into this. i'll find some way out of gaol," said the other, following his own stubborn line of thought.
the window was narrow, and three stout bars were morticed into the walls. moreover, their hands were doubled-tied behind them. all that occurred to them for the moment was to throw themselves against the door, each in turn, on the forlorn chance that their weight would break it down.
"well?" asked michael lazily, after their second useless assault on the door. "high gravity and a long face do not get us out of gaol. we'll just sit on the wet floor, kit, and whistle for the little imp me call chance."
michael tried to whistle, but broke down at sight of kit's lugubrious, unhumorous face. while he was still laughing, there was a shuffle of footsteps outside, a grating of the rusty door-lock, and, without word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them. then the door closed again, the key turned in the lock, and they heard the gaoler grumbling to himself as he passed into the street.
the new-comer picked himself up. he was dripping from head to foot; his face, so far as the green ooze of a horse-pond let them see it, was unlovely; but his eyes were twinkling with a merriment that won michael's heart.
"sirs, i warned you that banbury was no good place for cavaliers. i am pained to see you here."
michael remembered the man now—a fellow who had jested pleasantly with them in the tavern just before they were taken by the roundheads. "we forgot your warning, mr. barnaby," he said drily, "so we're here."
"i thank you, sir. drunken barnaby is all the address they give me nowadays. perhaps you would name me mr. barnaby again; it brings one's pride out of hiding."
so then they laughed together; and friendship lies along that road. and after that they asked each other what had brought them to the town gaol.
"you spoke of christmas pie, with puritans about you?" said drunken barnaby. "i could have warned you, gentlemen, and did not. i was always a day behind the fair. they loathe all words that are connected with 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 i roved down banbury street with some song of glory coming for king charles. i'm not warm now, but the cool o' the horse-pond has brought me an astonishing sobriety."
"then tell us how to be quit of these four walls," snapped kit, thinking ever of york and the need the city had of prince rupert.
"give me time," said drunken barnaby, "and a little sleep. between the forgetting and the waking, some gift o' luck will run my way."
"luck!" laughed michael. "she's a good mare to ride."
barnaby, with his little body and the traces of the horse-pond about him, had seemed to the gaoler of mean account, not worth the trouble of tying by the wrists. the rogue sat up suddenly, just as he was falling off to sleep.
"it is a mistake, my gentles, to disdain an adversary," he said, with that curious air of his, roystering, pedantic in the choice of phrases, not knowing whether he were ashamed of himself and all men, or filled with charitable laughter at their infirmities. "our friend with the blue-bottle nose left my hands free, you observe, while yours are bound. much water has gone into my pockets—believe me, i shall dislike all horse-ponds in the future—but the knife-blade there will not have rusted yet."
with a great show of strategy, still laughing at himself and them, he drew a clasp-knife from his breeches-pocket, opened it, and cut their thongs.
"that's half-way on the road to oxford," laughed kit, rubbing the weals about 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 you thought 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 to pick the lock; he might as well have tried to pierce steel armour with a needle.
"there's nothing to be done to-night, gentles," he said, with a noisy yawn; "and, when there's nothing to be done, i've found a safe and gallant rule of conduct—one sleeps. some day, if i find the muse propitious, i shall write an ode to sleep. it is the fabled elixir of life. it defies all fevers of the daytime; it is the coverlet that nature spreads about her tired children. but, gentlemen, i weary you."
"you make me laugh," asserted michael. "since i left yoredale, i've met none who had your grasp of life."
they settled themselves by and by to sleep, as best they could, on a wet floor, with the warmth of the new day rousing queer odours from their prison-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 a thrifty dream of yoredale and corn yellowing to harvest.
"what is it?" growled michael.
"i cannot sleep, sir. you recall that, in the tavern yesterday, i confessed myself a poet. the rhymes i have made, sir, are like the sands of the sea for multitude. i was never troubled till i came to banbury."
"then journey forward. there are other towns."
"you do not understand me. towns to be taken by assault, by any rhymes that offer, do not entice me. it is the hardship of attack that tempts your true soldier. you will grant me that?"
"i'll grant you anything, barnaby, so long as you let me sleep on this wet floor. i dreamed i was lying on a feather-bed."
"but the rhyme? you remember how the poem went: 'here i found a puritan one, hanging of his cat on a monday, for killing of a mouse on a sunday.' 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 praise of his mistress at ripley in the north, was heating his brain. but the lad was learning wisdom these days, and held his peace; there was no need to bring other men to joan grant by undue singing of her praises.
"believe me, this verse-making is a fever in the blood," protested barnaby. "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 i said last night. puri*tane* one—try it that way. get your man round to the king's cause, and he becomes a sane one."
"but, sir——"
michael smiled happily. "we have a saying in yoredale: 'i canna help your troubles, friend; i've enough of my own.' take it or leave it at puri*tane* one. for myself, i'm going to sleep."
barnaby sat wrestling with the muse. his mind, like all men's, was full of hidden byways, and the most secret of them all was this lane that led into 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 be remembered by his jingling verses—as, indeed, he was, centuries after the mould had settled over his unknown grave.
it might be five minutes later, or ten, that kit stirred in sleep, then sat bolt upright. he heard steps on the cobbled street outside, the turning of a rusty key in the lock. then the door opened, and he saw the 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 he got to his feet, stretched himself to the top of his great height, then went and picked the gaoler up and swung him to and fro lightly, as if he were 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 his rhyming, they sat in judgment on the gaoler. they tried him for high treason to king charles. they sentenced him to detention in his majesty's gaol sine die, and went into the street, locking the door behind them.
"you shall have the key, mr. barnaby," said michael. "release him when and how you like. for ourselves, we ride to oxford."
"nay, you walk," said barnaby, with great solemnity. "oh, i know your breed! you're all for going to the tavern for your horses. it will not do, gentles. the town is thick with roundheads."
"how can we walk twenty miles, with our errand a day or two old already?" said kit.
"beggars must foot it, when need asks. do you want to sing 'christmas pie' again all down banbury street, and have your errand spoiled? listen, sirs. this town does not suit my health just now; it does not suit yours. permit me to guide you out of it along a byway that i know."
kit was impatient for the risk, so long as they found horses; but michael saw the wisdom underlying barnaby's counsel. the three of them set out, along a cart-track first, that led between labourers' cottages on one hand and a trim farmstead on the other, then into the open fields. a league further on they struck into the oxford highway, an empty riband of road, with little eddies of dust blown about by the fingers of the quiet breeze.
"here we part, gentles," said barnaby, with his air of humorous pedantry. "oxford is for kings and prelates. i know my station, and my thirst for a brew of ale they have four miles over yonder hill."
they could not persuade him that, drunk or sober, he had rescued them from banbury, that they would be glad of his further company. he turned once, after bidding them farewell, and glanced at kit with his merry hazel eyes. "i've got that song of banbury," he said. "it all came to me when i saw you dandling the gaoler with the blue-bottle nose. strife and battle always helped the poets of a country, sir, since homer's time."
"there goes a rogue," laughed michael, listening to the man's song of banbury as he went chanting it up the rise. "well, i've known worse folk, and he untied our hands."
