He was walking rather slowly, to study the landmarks he had noted and find his way without inquiry, when some one took him a boisterous clap on the shoulder. Facing about with a deal of indignation in his movement, he found it was George Allestree, who merely stood back and laughed at him. “You need but two wings to make a paragon of a turkey cock, Hugh Gwyeth,” he said amusedly. “Are you looking for diversion? Come along with me. I am sick for some one to talk with.” Perhaps it was not a complimentary invitation, but Allestree followed it up by being so cordial and jolly that Hugh went with him out to the walks of Magdalen, and back into the city to dine at an ordinary. They had only just come out into the street again, when Hugh perceived a sudden surging of the foot passengers about him to the edge of the kennel, and such horsemen as were passing drew to the side to leave the way clear. Then some one raised a cry, “The king!” and others began cheering. Allestree caught Hugh’s sleeve and drew him up a flight of steps, whence, looking over the heads of the people, they could see a little band of mounted gentlemen come slowly pacing down the High Street. “Look you there, ’tis Prince Rupert,” Allestree cried loudly, to be heard through the cheering, and Hugh took a long look at a tall young man in a scarlet coat, whose whole attention was fixed upon his restless horse. Then he heard the cheers redouble, and Allestree had now joined his voice to the uproar. Right before the spot where he stood Hugh got sight in the midst of the horsemen of one with a pointed beard and slender face, who bowed his head never so slightly to those who cheered around him. Then the horsemen had passed by, men turned to go their way once more, and Allestree replaced his hat on his head. “Had you lost your voice, Hugh, that you could not cheer?” he asked curiously. “No,” Hugh answered, as he followed down from the steps, “I was thinking.” “’Tis a bad practice. What was it of?” “I was thinking his Majesty looks much as other men.” “Indeed? And what else?” “I was wondering,” Hugh said half to himself, “which had the right of it, you that do ever so extol him, or my grandfather who laid the blame of all this on him.” “Because your hair is clipped you’ve no need to wear ‘Roundhead’ in your heart,” Allestree answered sharply. “None but a boy or a fool would speak so.” Then, as Hugh looked abashed, the other moderated his tone, and, talking carelessly of this and that, they came at length to Allestree’s quarters, close outside the North Gate.