"Well, Kit," asked Michael. "We’ve fought for the King, and taken a wound or so. Now we’ve seen him in the flesh. How big is he, when dreams end?" "As big as dawn over Yoredale pastures. I never thought to meet his like." "So! You’re impulsive, lad, and always were, but I half believe you." They came again into the High Street. It was not long, so far as time went, since these Nappa men had fancied, in their innocence, that because a messenger rode out to summon them to Skipton, the King and all England must also know of them. Now the King did know of them, it seemed. Six months of skirmish, ambush, headlong gallops against odds, had put their names in all men’s mouths. Quietly, with a sense of wonder, they tested the wine known as fame, and the flavour of it had a sweetness as of spring before the languor of full summer comes. "We were strangers here an hour since," said Kit, watching the folk pass, "and now we come from Court." "What did I tell you, babe Christopher, when I tried in Yoredale to lick your dreaming into shape? Life’s the most diverting muddle. One hour going on foot, the next riding a high horse. We’d best find the tennis-court before the King’s message cools." A passer-by told them where to find the place. The door was open to the May sunlight, and, without ceremony or thought of it, they passed inside. Prince Rupert was playing a hard game with his brother Maurice. Neither heard the Metcalfs enter; in the blood of each was the crying need for day-long activity—in the open, if possible, and, failing that, within the closed walls of the tennis-court. The sweat dripped from the players as they fought a well-matched game; then Rupert tossed his racquet up. "I win, Maurice," he said, as if he had conquered a whole Roundhead army. "It is all we do in these dull times, Rupert—to win aces from each other. We’re tied here by the heels. There’s the width of England to go fighting in, and they will not let us." Rupert, turning to find the big surcoat that should hide his frivolous attire between the street and his lodging, saw the two Metcalfs standing there. He liked their bigness, liked the tan of weather and great hardship that had dyed their faces to the likeness of a mellowed wall of brick. Yet suspicion came easily to him, after long association with the intrigues of the Court at Oxford, and instinctively he reached down for the sword that was not there, just as Michael had done when he came dripping from Ouse river into York. "You are Prince Rupert?" said Michael. "The King sends this letter to you." Rupert broke the seal. When he had read the few lines written carelessly and at speed, his face cleared. "Maurice," he said, "we need play no more tennis. Here’s our commission to raise forces for the relief of York."