"I trust there is no quarrel, gentlemen?" he entreated. "None, as you see," said Michael airily. "We had a jest, host, about your Christmas pie. They tell me none says Mass in Banbury because the town is altogether heathen." So then a blow took him unawares, and when Kit and he woke next day, they found themselves in the town’s prison. Michael touched his brother with a playful foot. "You blundered, Kit, about that Christmas pie." "Yes," said Christopher; "so now it’s my affair, Michael, to find a way out of prison." But Michael only laughed. "I wish we could find a rhyme to Puritane one," he said. "It would help that rogue we met last night." The grey of early dawn stole through the window of the gaol and brightened to a frosty red as Michael and his brother sat looking at each other with grim pleasantry. Charged with an errand to bring Prince Rupert to the North without delay, they had won as far as this Roundhead-ridden town, a score miles or so from their goal, and a moment’s indiscretion had laid them by the heels. "Life’s diverting, lad. I always told you so," said Michael. "It would have been a dull affair, after all, if we had got to Oxford without more ado." "They need Rupert, yonder in York," growled Kit. "Ah, not so serious, lest they mistake you for a Puritan." "It is all so urgent, Michael." "True. The more need to take it lightly. Life, I tell you, runs that way, and I know something of women by this time. Flout life, Kit, toss it aside and jest at it, and all you want comes tumbling into your hands." "I brought you into this. I’ll find some way out of gaol," said the other, following his own stubborn line of thought. The window was narrow, and three stout bars were morticed into the walls. Moreover, their hands were doubled-tied behind them. All that occurred to them for the moment was to throw themselves against the door, each in turn, on the forlorn chance that their weight would break it down. "Well?" asked Michael lazily, after their second useless assault on the door. "High gravity and a long face do not get us out of gaol. We’ll just sit on the wet floor, Kit, and whistle for the little imp me call Chance." Michael tried to whistle, but broke down at sight of Kit’s lugubrious, unhumorous face. While he was still laughing, there was a shuffle of footsteps outside, a grating of the rusty door-lock, and, without word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them. Then the door closed again, the key turned in the lock, and they heard the gaoler grumbling to himself as he passed into the street. [Illustration: "Without a word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them."] The new-comer picked himself up. He was dripping from head to foot; his face, so far as the green ooze of a horse-pond let them see it, was unlovely; but his eyes were twinkling with a merriment that won Michael’s heart.