They were country born and bred, these Yoredale men, but the old Squire had taught them how to meet sharp emergencies, and especially this of standing in the Presence. Their obeisance was faultless in outward ceremony, and the King, who had learned from suffering the way to read men’s hearts, was aware that the loyalty of these two—the inner loyalty—was a thing spiritual and alive. The Queen, for her part, stood aside, diverted by the welcome comedy. These giants with the simple hearts had learned her husband’s name. "I am told that you seek Prince Rupert—that you are lately come from York?" said the King. He had the gift—one not altogether free from peril—that he accepted or disdained men by instinct; there were no half measures in his greetings. Little by little Christopher and Michael found themselves at ease. The King asked greedily for news of York. They had news to give. Every word they spoke rang true to the shifting issues of the warfare in the northern county. It was plain, moreover, that they had a single purpose—to find Rupert and to bring him into the thick of tumult where men were crying for this happy firebrand. The King glanced across at Henrietta Maria. They did not know, these Metcalfs, what jealousies and slanders and pin-pricks of women’s tongues were keeping Rupert here in Oxford. They did not know that Charles himself, wearied by long iteration of gossip dinned into his ears, was doubting the good faith of his nephew, that he would give him no commission to raise forces and ride out. The King and Queen got little solace from their glance of Question; both were so overstrained with the trouble of the times, so set about by wagging tongues that ought to have been cut out by the common hangman, that they could not rid themselves at once of doubt. And the pity of it was that both loved Rupert, warmed to the pluck of his exploits in the field, and knew him for a gentleman proved through and through. "Speak of York again," said the King. "London is nothing to me, save an overgrown, dull town whose people do not know their minds. Next to Oxford, in my heart, lies York. If that goes, gentlemen, I’m widowed of a bride." He was tired, and the stimulus of this hale, red-blooded loyalty from Yoredale moved him from the grave reticence that was eating his strength away. "It is music to me to hear of York. From of old it was turbulent and chivalrous. It rears strong men, and ladies with the smell of lavender about them. Talk to me of the good city." So then Michael, forgetting where he stood, told the full tale of his journeying to York. And the Queen laughed—the pleasant, easy laughter of the French—when he explained the share a camp-follower’s donkey had had in the wild escapade. "You will present the donkey to me," she said. "When all is well again, and we come to praise York for the part it took in holding Yorkshire for the King, you will present that donkey to me."