"Oh, just my brother—the dwarf of our company. Little, but full of meat, as our Yoredale farmers say when they bring small eggs to market. To be precise, Kit here is worth three of me. They call him the White Knight in Oxford." So Kit in his turn drank the heady wine of praise; and then Michael, with swift return to the prose of everyday, told all he knew of Rupert’s movements, all that he had learned of the famine and dissension outside the city gates. "The Prince bade you all be ready for the sortie when he came," he finished. "For my part, I think we might sortie now and save him the trouble of scattering these ragabouts." "Ah, life’s a droll jade," murmured the Irishman. "We fancied they were doing fairly well out yonder, while we were cooped up here like chickens in a pen. Will you give me the sortie, my lord? The light’s waning fast." "Ay, lead them, Malone," laughed Newcastle. "I shall be glad to give mettled colts their exercise." The sentry at the Mills postern gate was suffering evil luck to-night. He had scarcely settled himself on his bench inside the gate, a tankard of ale beside him, and a great faith that the odds were all against his being disturbed twice in the same evening, when there came a splutter of running feet outside and a knocking on the door. Memory of the earlier guests was still with him, sharpened by the sting of aches and bruises. "No more gentle Puritans for me," he growled. "They can knock as they list; for my part, I’m safer in company with home-brewed ale." He listened to the knocking. Drink and his rough experience of awhile since, between them, brought a coldness to his spine, as if it were a reed shivering in some upland gale. Then warmth returned to him. A voice he knew told him of what had happened outside York, and insisted that its bearer should bring the good news in. "Why, Matthew, is it only thee?" asked the sentry, his mouth against the spacious keyhole. "Who else? Open, thou durned fool. My news willun’t bide." Lord Newcastle had scarcely given consent to the sortie, when the sentry came again to the dining-chamber, pushing in front of him a lean, ragged figure of a man who seemed to have found a sudden shyness, until Michael burst into a roar of laughter. "Here’s a gallant rogue! It was by his help I won into York last spring. Sutler, I thank you for the donkey purchased from you." "Is she well, sir?" asked the other eagerly. "I aye had a weakness for the skew-tempered jade." "Come, your news?" snapped Newcastle. "It’s this way, gentles. I can talk well enough when I’m selling produce for the best price it will fetch—and prices rule high just now, I own—but I’m shy when it comes to talking wi’ my betters." "Then put some wine into your body," laughed Malone. "It’s a fine remedy for shyness." "And thank ye, sir," said the rogue, with a quiet, respectful wink. "I’m aye seeking a cure for my prime malady." "Well?" asked Newcastle, after the cup was emptied.