"Good!" laughed Michael. "It’s a fine conceit." "Ah, you’ve taste, sir. But the trouble is, I find no rhyme to ’Puritan one.’ To find no rhyme, to a poet, is like journeying through a country that brews no ale. Believe me, it is heartache, this search for a good rhyme." "Puri*tane* one—the lilt running that way——" "I have tried that, too," said the other with sorrow, "and still find no rhyme." The door opened sharply, and the landlord bustled in. "Supper is served, gentlemen. I trust you will not mind sharing it with some officers of the Parliament quartered here?" "Nothing would please us better," assented Michael. "Will our friend here join us, host?" "Oh, we none of us heed Drunken Barnaby. Leave him to his rhymes, sir." Yet Michael turned at the door. "I have it, Barnaby," he chuckled. "Here I found a Puritane one: bid him turn and grow a sane one’—that’s the way of it, man." "It rhymes," said Barnaby sadly, "but the true poetic fire is lacking. Leave me to it, gentlemen." As they crossed the passage Kit drew his brother aside. "Remember what the Squire said, Michael. We need quiet tongues and a cool head if we’re to find Rupert." "Youngster, I remember. That was why I played the fool to Barnaby’s good lead. All men trust a fool." When they came to the parlour, they found a well-filled board, and round it six men, big in the beam, with big, cropped heads and an air of great aloofness from this world’s concerns; but they were doing very well with knife and fork. The two Metcalfs answered all questions guardedly; and all went well until Kit saw a great pie brought in, a long, flat-shaped affair with pastry under and over, and inside, when its crust was tapped, a wealth of mincemeat of the kind housewives make at Christmas. "Michael, this is all like Yoredale," said Kit unguardedly. "Here’s a Christmas pie." To his astonishment, the Puritans half rose in their seats and glanced at him as if he had the plague. "There are Royalists among us," said one. "What is all this nonsense, friends?" asked Michael, with imperturbable good temper. "We call it mince-meat now. None of your Christmases for us, or any other Masses. None of Red Rome for us, I say. Banbury kills any man who talks of Masses." "We’ve blundered somehow, Kit," whispered Michael nonchalantly. "Say, do you stand for the King?" asked the Roundhead. "Yes or no—do you stand for the King?" [Illustration: "’Say, do you stand for the King?’"] "Why, yes," said Kit. "Come on, you six crop-headed louts." This was the end of Kit’s solemnity, his over-serious attention to Prince Rupert’s needs. And then they were in the thick of it, and the weight of the onset bore them down. When the battle ended—the table overturned, and three of the Roundheads under it—when Kit and Michael could do no more, and found themselves prisoners in the hands of the remaining three, the landlord, sleek and comfortable, bustled in.