Soon they had nothing left but Merrylips' three half-pence. These Rupert gave one morning for a noggin of milk and a piece of soft bread, which he bought at a farmyard gate. And he made Merrylips drink and eat it, every drop and crumb. The dairymaid from whom they bought the food must have run and told her mistress about them, for scarcely had Merrylips done eating, when the farmer's wife, a big, rosy woman, came bustling out of the house. She looked at the two little boys, who were standing forlornly by the bars, in the cold dawn, and then she called to them to come in. Merrylips was so tired and sick that she would have gone to the woman, even if she were a rebel. But Rupert whispered:-- "'Tis a trap! No doubt she would betray us to the Roundhead soldiers!" So saying, he caught Merrylips by the arm and hurried her away. He would not let her stop running till he had led her deep into a lonely growth of willows that drooped above a swollen brook. "But I doubt--if she would have served us--an ill turn," Merrylips panted, as soon as she got breath. "She looked right kind." "Ay, she was one of thy rebel friends," sneered Rupert, and flung her hand from his. Yet there was some excuse for his ill humor. After all, he was but a young boy, and he suffered cruelly with his aching foot, and he had not eaten in hours. What with pain and hunger and fear for the future, it was no wonder, perhaps, that he was quite savage. In any case, he went and lay down in the shelter of a bank, and turned his back upon his little comrade. Merrylips was left sitting alone by the brookside. She wondered what would become of them now. Here they were, in the enemy's country, without money, and without friends, and without strength to travel farther. Perhaps they would die right there, like the poor babes in the old ballad that Goody Trot used to sing. When she thought of Goody Trot, she thought of all the kind old days at Larkland, and she was almost ready to cry. But she drew from within her shirt the silver ring, and kissed it, and laid her cheek against it. She thought of Lady Sybil, and how she had told her that she could be as brave as a boy, whatever dress she wore. Then she grew ashamed that she, who was Lady Sybil's goddaughter and Sir Thomas Venner's child, should be cast down, only because she was a little cold and hungry. So she made herself sing softly, and she sat turning the ring between her fingers while she thought what a brave, merry face she would have to show to Rupert when he woke. Suddenly, like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky, she felt a stinging blow across her cheek. Her head rang with it. Her eyes were dazzled with dancing stars. Through a haze she saw Rupert standing over her with fists clenched and eyes that flamed. "Tibbott Venner, thou little thief!" he choked. "Give me that ring." From where she had fallen upon her elbow Merrylips stared up at him. "But, Rupert," she said, "'tis mine! 'Tis mine own ring."