"And afterwards we sortied—sortied till we drove them into hiding, like rabbits. The Lady of Lathom welcomed us home each night, her eyes on fire." "No doubt, brother. The tale will warm me by and by. Meanwhile I don’t care a stiver what fire shone in my lady’s eyes—blue, or grey, or black. Give me honest ale, of the true nut-brown colour." "You’re a wastrel, Michael," laughed the younger brother, glad to pass badinage again with one of his own folk. "I am, my lad, and know it. There’s luck in being a wastrel—folk expect nothing from a man. He goes free, while such as you—babe Kit, if you guessed how prisoned up you are! They look for sorties, gallops against odds, moonshine of all sorts every day you live. You’ve a nickname already in Oxford. They name you the White Knight." "Oh, be done with banter," snapped Christopher. "There’s little knighthood about me. Let’s get down to camp and see the colour of that ale of yours." When they came to the heathery, rising land wide of Bolton, and the sentry had passed them forward, Kit found himself face to face with Prince Rupert once again. "The White Knight brings news," Michael explained in his off-handed way. "Pleasant news?" the Prince asked. "Is Rigby dead, or the siege raised?" "By your leave," said Kit, "the siege is raised. Rigby has gone to Bolton-le-Moors, to hide there. He has what are left of his three thousand men, and fifteen hundred others. The town is strong." "Good, sir!" Fire—deep, glowing fire—showed in Rupert’s eyes. "Lady Derby is a kinswoman of mine; and if Rigby is in Bolton, I know where to find the fox she loathes." A big, tired figure of a man pushed his way through the soldiery. "I heard someone speak of Lady Derby?" he said. Prince Rupert touched him on the shoulder. "_I_ did, friend," he said, with a quiet laugh. "There’s none so touchy as a husband who chances to be his wife’s lover, too. My Lord Derby, this is Mr. Metcalf, known otherwise as the White Knight. He brings news that Rigby the fox has slunk into Bolton. Best put our hounds in and drive him out of cover." "Give me the assault," said Lord Derby drily. "I cannot. Your name glamours Lancashire. I will not have you risk all in driving a red fox into the open." Derby yielded to the discipline engrained in him, but with a bad grace. The Prince, himself eager for the assault, but ashamed to take a leadership which on grounds of prudence he had refused the other, asked for volunteers. When these were gathered, the whole force marched on Bolton and halted within five hundred yards of the stout walls. Then the assaulting party came forward at the double. "Not you, Mr. Metcalf," said Rupert, detaining Christopher as he ran forward to join in any lively venture. "We cannot spare you."