From the time that I said farewell to Anthony Dacre at the door of the wayside inn until June of the following year I never heard aught of my relatives, though they, as it appeared--thanks to Master Anthony--heard no little of me. I was here and there with the army under Essex all that autumn and winter of 1642-43, and truth to tell, we had no very brave times of it. There was discontent and despondency, and also there was disease and desertion, and there was the affair at Kingston Bridge where we let the king escape us in the most childish fashion, and these matters did us little good, as you may believe. The king was negotiating, and quibbling, and lying, at Oxford, and nobody was sorry when spring came and put an end to all the talk and writing. Essex reunited his army, and there was not a man of us that did not look forward to the resumption of hostilities. It was Hampden’s notion that we should immediately invest Oxford, which was at that time ill calculated to withstand a siege, but Essex thought differently, and made for Reading, which he reduced after a ten days’ siege. About the middle of June we approached Oxford and fixed our headquarters at Thame, within ten miles of the city, and it was while we lay there that I received news of my relations at the Manor House. There came into my tent one afternoon a tall fellow that first stared about him with an air of great curiosity, and then enquired if he spoke to Master Richard Coope. “You do, master,” says I. “My name is Stephen Morrel,” says he. “I never heard on’t before,” I says. “Have you business with me, Master Morrel?” He lugged a packet out of his breast and held it towards me so that I could see the handwriting. “Do you recognise that fist, Master Coope?” says he. “Why!” says I. “’Tis my uncle’s.” There was no mistaking the crabbed up and down strokes. “Sit you down, Master Morrel,” I says, “Faith! I had no idea that you carried news to me.” “Why,” says he, “I know naught about the news, Master Coope. But suffer me,” he says, seating himself, “to give you some account of the manner in which this packet came into my hands.” “With the greatest joy in the world,” says I. “But don’t be long in your story, for I am mighty impatient to read my uncle’s letter.” “I will waste no words,” says he, settling himself in a fashion that made me think he intended at least an hour’s discourse. “It was after this fashion,” he says. “You must know, Master Coope, that I set out from the North some three weeks ago, bearing despatches from Sir Thomas Fairfax to the Earl of Essex. ’Tis a mighty desperate thing, let me tell you, this carrying of despatches through a lonely country where you may as like as not be stopped by stray parties of the enemy, or fall across some town or village that is mad for the King’s Majesty. What do you think, Master Coope, on that point?” “Sir,” says I, “I am so exceeding loth to interrupt you that I shall not trouble you with my thoughts. This packet, now--?”