Cavendish rode a little behind the King and on his left, a grim man with watchful eyes. Salisbury and Warwick were close at his heels. Knollys and Walworth rode with the main company, shadowing the King’s half-brothers, Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent. There was a moment’s halt under the arch of the outer gate, for one of the bars had jammed in its socket; and while the porters were tugging at it Knollys came pushing forward till his horse was close to the King’s. “Sir, a word in your ear.” He leant over. “Sir, you have two half-brothers, you remember, apt to be hot-headed fools. I have caught them giving each other strange looks. The mob does not love them.” “Let them bide in the Tower.” “Sir, it would be better to rid ourselves of them. Take your chance, or shall I bid them save their skins?” He beckoned to Salisbury, who edged his horse up. Knollys spoke in a whisper. “The Hollands have scented a fox.” “Send the young hounds hunting it! The two young meddlers!” Knollys bit his moustache. “I carry the King’s orders. A word to them—that their heads have been asked for! We will wait our chance on the way, and smuggle them into the city to hide.” “Good, very good.” One of the porters who had been peering through the grille came to them with a white face. “Sirs, the crowd is great without.” “Tsst! they have marched to Mile End.” “Sirs, not the Kentish men.” Fulk waved him aside. “Well, am I afraid of my own people! Open the gates. Let the trumpets blow. Now, sirs, for St. George and Richard of England!” The gate swung back and the young King on the white horse rode out into the sea of heads and faces. For the moment a great silence held—the silence of a mistrustful crowd whose goodwill hangs upon the flash of an eye or the set of a head; but this lad with the crown rode out proudly. His eyes were steady and fearless, and he smiled at the crowd. “Good sirs, well met.” His courage captured them. The cock of his head, the braced-back shoulders, the blue metal of his eyes, these things counted. These rough fellows from the fields shouted tumultuously and crowded about him. “King Richard for Merrie England!” Fulk stood in his stirrups. “Sirs, I am Richard your King. To Mile End! Follow my banners.” The crowd made way for him, and he passed with his company of lords and gentlemen, who rode close together and scarcely looked at the crowd. The banners swept under the arch of the gate, and the men of Kent were on the move—all save a few who seemed to stare and loiter as though a King and such a company were not to be seen more than once in a lifetime. The porters were closing the gate when these loiterers gathered suddenly, rushed in a body through the barriers, hurled back the half-closed gate, and struck down the guards and porters. They stood there shouting and tossing their weapons.