The donkey was waiting patiently in the road until they had settled their differences. When the new master put a hand on the bridle and urged her forward, the brute lashed out a hind leg and scarred his leg from knee to heel. "Ah, there, be gentle!" laughed the rogue who was wearing Michael’s clothes. "My name’s Driver—Will Driver, at your service—and I allus said—said it to gentle and simple, I did—that, though I’m named Driver, I willun’t be druv." He came and patted the brute’s face, talked to its elemental obstinacy, praised some qualities that only he could find to praise. "There, mister! She willun’t be druv. Treat her kindly. That’s the password. Don’t drag her bridle, thinking she’s going to gallop for the King. You’re no horseman now—just a sutler bringing his wares to camp." Michael, out of the harum-scarum years behind, had learned one good thing at least—the gift to pick up sound advice when he found the rare type of man who was fit to give it. On the road to York his patience was sorely tried. It was easier to lead a squad of cavalry than this crude ass that dragged a cart of garden produce. He tried cajolery of Will Driver’s kind, but had no gift for it. He tried force. Nothing served, until it occurred to him to turn her, by sheer strength, with her face to Ripley. She turned instantly about, with her face to York, and thereafter the going was quick and pleasant. "Women have taught me something, after all," chuckled Michael, as they went forward. When he came into the lines, he found a press of soldiery about him. They were ravenous, and ate raw cabbages from his cart as if they were beef-steaks. Michael had not known what hunger meant until he saw the faces of these Roundheads who were beleaguering York. He went among them with ears open, heard that they had eaten bare the fat lands round about, until no food was left. However it was faring with the garrison behind the city walls, it was certain that the besiegers were thin and mutinous from lack of food. When his wares were sold, he went up and down the camp, the simplest countryman that ever brought a donkey-load to market; heard of the dissensions among the leaders; knew, once for all, that the Puritans, with all their dour talk of heaven waiting for those who denied all joy in life, were much as usual men are—needing food and liquor, and finding a grim temper when ale and victuals were denied them. He brushed shoulders with a thickset, rough-faced officer, who hurried by on some business connected with the siege, and was astonished when he learned that so plain a man was no other than Oliver Cromwell, of whose genius for warfare and hard blows all Yorkshire had been talking lately. Later in the day, too, he saw Cromwell’s Ironsides, and their hefty, rugged air roused a wild impulse in him. If only they would pick six-score of their number, and ride out to battle with the Metcalf clan, what a fight would be in the doing!