It was when they were pressing on to York the next day—after a brief night’s sleep in the open and a breakfast captured by each man as best he could—that the Prince rode back to the white company of horses that carried the Metcalf clan. He reined about on finding Michael. "You found your way into York once for me, sir. You will do it a second time. Bid them be ready. Tell them we travel as quickly as may be, and sorties from their three main gates, when the moment comes, will be of service." "My thanks for the errand. May I ask a second boon, your Highness?" "Oh, I think one would grant you anything in reason. A man with your merry eyes is privileged." "I had a sutler’s donkey with me in the first attempt. She brought me luck, undoubtedly—we had the like temperament, she and I—but we lost her during these forced marches. Can I have Christopher here to share the venture?" Kit reddened, then laughed the jest aside. And the Prince, as he looked at these two, so dissimilar and yet so full of comradeship, thought of his own brother Maurice, and wished that he were here. "Ay, take him with you," he said; "he will steady your venture. And, gentlemen, take your route at once." "You heard what he said?" asked Christopher, after the Prince had spurred forward to the main body. "I shall steady your venture. There’s a counter for your talk of donkeys, Michael." Michael said nothing. As one who knew his brother’s weakness, he waited till they were well on their way to York, and had reached a finger-post where four cross-roads met. "We might go by way of Ripley," he hazarded, pointing to the left-hand road. "Why, yes," said Kit unguardedly. "It is the nearest way, and the road better— "The road even viler, and the distance a league more. I said we _might_ take the Ripley way. In sober earnest, we go wide of Mistress Joan." "Who spoke of Joan Grant?" "Your cheeks, lad, and the note in your voice. Nay, no heat. D’ye think the Prince gave us this venture for you to go standing under yon Ripley casement, sighing for the moon that lives behind it? York would be relieved and all over, before I steadied you." "You’ve no heart, Michael." "None, lad; and I’m free of trouble, by that token." And Kit, the young fire in his veins, did not know that Michael was jesting at the grave of his own hopes. That upper chamber—the look of Mistress Joan, her pride and slenderness—were matters that had pierced the light surface of his life, once for all. "The York country was eaten bare when I last went through it," he said, after they had ridden a league in silence. "It will be emptier now. Best snatch a meal at the tavern here, Kit, while we have the chance. Our wits will need feeding if we’re to find our way into York." They found a cheery host, a table well spread with cold meats. When the host returned with wine, ordered hastily, he glanced at his guests with an air that was half humorous and half secretive.