The little lady glanced shrewdly at them both, her head a little on one side like a bird’s. "Are you of the company they call the Riding Metcalfs? Then the south knows you, too, and the west country, wherever men are fighting for the King. Gentlemen, you have a battle-cry before you charge—what is it?" "A Mecca for the King!" She laughed infectiously. "It is not like me to ask for passwords. I was so gay and full of trust in all men until the war came. The times are _difficile, n’est pas_, and you were unknown to me. What is your errand here?" "We came to find Prince Rupert," said Kit, blurting his whole tale out because a woman happened to be pretty and be kind. "The north is needing him. That is our sole business here." "Ah, then, I can help you. There’s a little gate here—one goes through the gardens, and so into the Deanery. My husband lodges there. He will tell you where Rupert finds himself." Michael, because he knew himself to be a devil-may-care, had a hankering after prudence now and then, and always picked the wrong moment for it. If this unknown lady had chosen to doubt them, and ask for a password, he would show the like caution. Moreover, he felt himself in charge just now of this impulsive younger brother. "Madam," he answered, his smile returning, "our errand carries with it the whole safety of the north. In all courtesy, we cannot let ourselves be trapped within the four walls of a house. Your husband’s name?" "In all courtesy," she broke in, "it is permitted that I laugh! The days have been so _triste_—so _triste_. It is like Picardy and apple orchards to find one’s self laughing. You shall know my husband’s name, sir—oh, soon! Is it that two men so big and high are afraid to cross an unknown threshold?" Michael thrust prudence aside, glad to be rid of the jade. "I’ve seldom encountered fear," he said carelessly. "Ah, so! Then you have not loved." Her face was grave, yet mocking. "To live one must love, and to love—that is to know fear." She unlocked the gate with a key she carried at her girdle, and passed through. They followed her into gardens lush, sweet-smelling, full of the pomp and eager riot of the spring. Then they passed into the Deanery, and the manservant who opened to them bowed with some added hint of ceremony that puzzled Michael. The little lady bade them wait, went forward into an inner room, then returned. "My husband will receive you, gentlemen," she said, with a smile that was like a child’s, yet with a spice of woman’s malice in it. The sun was playing up and down the gloomy panels of the chamber, making a morris dance of light and shade. At the far end a man was seated at a table. He looked up from finishing a letter, and Christopher felt again that rush of blood to the heart, that deep, impulsive stirring of the soul, which he had known not long ago in the High Street of the city.