“Are you so?” says he. “Look you, Master Coope, how would you explain such things as these? Three days ago, Fairfax issues his warrant for the attachment of Sir Nicholas, your uncle, who has been mighty active of late in vexing and annoying the Parliamentarian forces now investing Pomfret Castle. In order that the thing may be done with as little violence as possible to the old knight’s feelings, he entrusts the warrant to your kinsman, Master Dacre, who on coming to the house, finds it already prepared to withstand a siege. Now within twenty-four hours of his sitting down before it----” “Or skulking in the stable,” says I, “but I interrupt you, sir,” I says. “Pray proceed.” “Within twenty-four hours of its investment,” he says, “you secretly hand a most important despatch to one of his troopers, bidding him----” “Bribing him,” says I. “Why, of course,” says he, laughing, “but at any rate, he was to carry it to Fairfax. And so he does, and it proves to be a despatch from Cromwell, of great moment. And so, naturally, Fairfax wants to know how you, the bearer, came to be in the house of a Royalist when you should have been making all speed to him with the despatch--and since he wants to know, he will know, and that, Master Coope,” he says, “is why I’m here.” “Sir,” says I, “if I tell you the exact facts of the case, will you make Fairfax immediately acquainted with them? For I can assure you they are somewhat different to the representations made to him by that fox, Anthony Dacre,” I says, looking hard at him. “I will indeed fulfill your wish,” he says. “Faith, I thought there must be some other aspect of the case.” “You shall see the true one,” I says, and I told him of all that had chanced since I came to the top of the road at Barnsdale. He listened attentively. “And a much more likely story than t’other!” says he, when I had finished. “I will repeat it to a trusty messenger and send him on to Fairfax at once. But, Master Coope,” says he, “why not submit yourselves and go with me to Fairfax? Tell him your tale with your own lips,” he says. “Why, sir,” says I, “personally, I have no objection to going before Fairfax. But within the house, my uncle lies dying, and my cousin is at his bedside, and neither will yield to you except by force. And while they’re there,” says I, “there I shall stay.” “Then our negotiations must fall through,” says he, regretfully. “Is there no chance, Master Coope--for look you, I must do my duty--Fairfax and Sands are stern men, and I am jealously watched.” “Sir,” I says, “there is no help for it--we must each do our duty in our own fashion. Your bullets,” I says, with a glance at the old walls, “will find something to resist them.” “Well,” says he, “’tis a pity, Master Coope, but--at least let us shake hands ere we fight,” he says, and held out his own. “With all the pleasure in the world,” says I.