"Here is the wine, Mr. Metcalf," he said—"the best of a good cellar, though I say it." "Eh?" drawled Michael, always most indolent when surprised. "You know my name, it seems." "Well, sir, if two big, lusty gentry choose to come riding two white horses—and all the Plain o’ York ringing with news of the Riding Metcalfs—small blame to me if I guessed your quality. I’m a King’s man, too." "You’d best prove it quickly," said Michael, with a gentle laugh. "The business we ride on asks for sacrifice, and a fat host or two would not be missed." "I am asking to prove it." The way of the man, the jolly red of his face, and the eyes that were clear as honesty, did not admit of doubt. "In the little room across the passage there are three crop-headed Puritans dining—dining well, and I grudge ’em every mouthful. They’re not ashamed to take their liquor, too; and whether ’twas that, or whether they fancied I was as slow-witted as I seemed, they babbled of what was in the doing." "I always had the luck," said Michael impassively. "Had they the password through the ranks besieging York?" "Ay, that; and more. They had papers with them; one was drying them at the fire, after the late storm o’ rain that had run into his pocket, and it seemed they were come with orders for the siege. I should say they were high in office with the Puritans, for they carried the three sourest faces I’ve seen since I was breeked." "The papers can wait. What was the password, host?" "_Idolatry_. It seemed a heathenish word, and I remembered it." "Good," laughed Michael. "To-morrow it will be Mariolatry, doubtless, and Red Rome on the next day. How these folk love a gibe at His Majesty’s sound Churchmanship! They carry papers, you say? It is all diverting, host. My brother here will not admit that luck, pure and simple, is a fine horse to ride. Kit, we must see that little room across the passage." Michael got to his feet, finished his wine in three leisurely gulps, then moved to the closed door, which he opened without ceremony. The three Parliament men had their heads together at the board, and one was emphasising an argument by drumming with a forefinger on the papers spread before them. They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached out for their weapons when they saw Michael step into the room, followed by a lesser giant. [Illustration: "They turned sharply as the door opened, and reached out for their weapons."] "_Idolatry_, friends," said Michael suavely. The three looked at each other with puzzled question. These strangers wore their hair in the fashion dear to Cavaliers, and they carried an intangible air that suggested lightness of spirit. "You have the password," said one; "but your fashion is the fashion of Belial’s sons. What would you?"