"A Mecca for the King!" he roared, and his horse went light under him, as if it trod on air. The besiegers ran hurriedly to their horses. Some mounted, others had no time. Into the thick of them crashed the sortie, and the work was swift and headlong in the doing. Through the steam and odours of the interrupted meal the attack crashed forward, till the sortie party, breathless, with a queer glee fluting at their hearts, found themselves at the far side of the town. "You made a lane for us once," said Phil Amory. "Now we’ve made a lane for you. There’s no time for farewells, friends—put spurs to your horses and gallop." He gave Michael no time for the protest ready to his lips, but turned about, and, with a bugle-cry of "Knaresborough for the King!" dashed through the enemy again. The Metcalfs waited till they saw the gate close on the forty who had hacked a way to liberty for them, and Michael half hoped they would be needed, because Miss Bingham was sheltered by the Castle walls. "We have the road to Rupert, now," said Kit. "So we have, lad." "Then why look back at Knaresborough? You’re in a dream, Michael." "The prettiest eyes in England set me dreaming. I’ve good excuse." So Kit, a little sore on his own account, and with a heartache hidden somewhere, grew serious as only the very young can do. "There is Rupert waiting for us," he snapped. "Ah, true, grave brother. Let’s get to Oxford, and the Duchess of Richmond will cure me of this folly, maybe. There, lad, not so fiery! It’s no crime that a duchess should have pleasant eyes. Even princes must warm themselves at the hearth just now and then." "What route to take?" asked Kit by and by, coming down from his pedestal of high, romantic gravity. "We’ll go by the sun so far as the winding roads will let us. Oxford lies south-west. Chance and the sun, between them, shall decide; but we had best keep free of towns and garrisons." "Undoubtedly," growled Christopher. "There would be the finest eyes in England glancing at you through the lattices." In this odd way the brothers, different in experience and outlook, but bound together by some deep tie of affection, took up the hazard of a ride that was to end, they hoped, at Oxford. There was a fine, heedless simplicity about it all, a trust in open country and the sun’s guidance, that was bred in the Metcalf men. *CHAPTER VIII.* *HOW THEY SOUGHT RUPERT.* They had not gone seven miles before they heard, wide on their bridle-hand, the braying of a donkey. It was not a casual braying, but a persistent, wild appeal that would not be denied. "Brother calls to brother," said Michael, with his diverting obedience to superstition. "One of his kind helped me into York. We’ll see what ails him."