But Rupert, when at last he, too, was roused, said nothing of his dream. It had been built of moons and Stardust—made up of all the matters he had lost in this queer life of prose—and he would share it with no man. When they got to the pastures again—blundering as men in drink might do—the free, light air that follows thunder blew about their wits. It was Rupert who first spoke. He remembered that men in flight were trusting him, were needing a leader. "Friends," he said, "I’m for York. Do you go with me?" The noise from Wilstrop Wood, the cries from the Moor, grew small in the hearing as they made their way to a speck of light that showed a half-mile or so in front. Two farm-dogs sprang out on them when they reached the farmstead; but the fugitives knew the way of such, and passed unhindered. "Are ye fro’ Marston, gentles?" asked the farmer, limping out to learn what the uproar was about. "Ay? Then how has the King sped?" "We are broken," said Rupert simply. "Well, I’m sorry. Step in and shelter. Ye’d be the better for a meal, by the look o’ ye. ’Tis the least I can do for His Majesty, seeing my two rheumy legs kept me fro’ riding to his help." "Have you three horses we can borrow, friend?" "Nay, I’ve but two. You’re welcome to them; and they’re sound-footed, which is more than their master can say of himself." While they snatched a meal of beef and bread, Christopher glanced at the Prince. "I know my way on foot to Ripley, and they may need me there," he said. "The fields will be packed with danger, lad. Run at my stirrup, till by good luck we find a third horse on the road to York." "Let him be," growled the old Squire. "There’s a lady lives at Ripley. Lovers and drunkards seldom come to harm, they say." "Ah, so!" For a moment there was a glow of tenderness in Rupert’s sombre eyes. "It is good to hear the name of lady after the late happenings. Get forward, sir, and guard her." Christopher saw them get to horse and take the track that led to York. Then he fared out into the moonlit pastures, took his bearings, and headed straight for Ripley. The distance was less than twelve miles by the field-tracks; but, by the route he took, it was slow to follow. The clay-lands were waterlogged by the late storm; the hedges to be broken through were high and thorny; but these were not the greatest of his troubles. It had been no velvet warfare, that hour’s fight on the Moor. Constantly, as Kit went forward, he heard a groan from the right hand or the left, and stayed to tend a wounded comrade. There was peril, too, from horses roaming, maddened and riderless, in search of the masters they had lost.