Through the warm night they made their way, between hedgerows fragrant with young leafage. All was more forward here than in the northland they had left, without that yap of the north-easter which is winter’s dying bark in Yoredale. Peace went beside them down the lane, and, in front, the sleepy lights reached out an invitation to them through the dusk. On the outskirts of the town they met a farmer jogging home. "What do they call the place?" asked Michael. "Banbury," said the farmer, with a jolly laugh; "where they keep good ale." "So it seems, friend. You’re mellow as October." "Just that. Exchange was never robbery. First the ale was mellowed; then I swallowed ale, I did, and now I’m mellow, too." With a lurch in the saddle, and a cheery "Good night," he went his way, and Michael laughed suddenly after they had gone half a mile. "We forgot to ask him where the good ale was housed," he explained. In the middle of the town they found a hostelry, and their first concern was with Kit’s horse. The ostler, an ancient fellow whose face alone was warranty for his judgment of all horseflesh, said that the lame leg would be road-worthy again in three days, "but not a moment sooner." So Kit at once went the round of the stable, picked out the best horse there, and said he must be saddled ready for the dawn. "Oh, lad, you’re thorough!" chuckled Michael, as they went indoors. "One needs be, with Rupert only a day’s ride away." There was only one man in the "snug" of the tavern when they entered. By the look of him, he, too, had found good ale in Banbury. Squat of body, unlovely of face, there was yet a twinkle in his eye, a gay indifference to his own infirmities, that appealed to Michael. "Give you good e’en, gentlemen. What are your politics?" asked the stranger. "We have none," said Kit sharply. "That shows your wisdom. For my part—close the door, I pray—I’m a King’s man, and have flown to drink—so much is obvious—for solace. Believe me, I was never in a town that smelt so strongly of Roundheads as does Banbury. They meet one in the streets at every turn, and in the taverns. One might think there was no Royalist alive to-day in England." The man’s bombast, his easy flow of speech, the intonation now and then that proclaimed him one of life’s might-have-beens, arrested Michael. "Tell us more, friend," he said lazily. "Gladly. I need help. I am making a tour, you understand, of the chief towns of England, staying a day or more in each, until the Muse arrives. I was ever one to hope; and, gentlemen, by the froth on my pewter-mug, I swear that many noblemen and gentry will buy my book of verses when it’s all completed." "So you need our help?" asked Michael, humouring him. "Most urgently. I have a most diverting ditty in my head, about this town of Banbury. It runs in this way: "Here I found a Puritan one Hanging of his cat on a Monday For killing of a mouse on a Sunday."