"Faith, we were never taught it," laughed Michael. "It just came to us as the corn sprouts or the lark sings. The old grey kirk had something to do with it, maybe, though I yawned through many a sermon about serving God and honouring the King. One remembers these little matters afterwards." "One does, undoubtedly," said Rupert. "Now, sir," he went on, after a grave silence, "I have a great desire. I’m commissioned to raise forces for the relief of York, and I want you men of Yoredale for my first recruits. They are already busy in the north, you’ll say. Yes, but I need them here. Six-score of your breed here among us, or as many as their wounds permit to ride, would bring the laggards in." "With you here?" said Kit impulsively. "The laggards should be stirred without our help." "By your leave, they are tiring of me here in Oxford. The tales of your doings in the north are whetting jaded appetites. Bring your big men south on their white horses, and show the city what it covets. I’ll send a horseman to York within the hour." "That need not be," said Michael. "We wasted a whole night in Banbury, and your messenger need ride no further than that town, I fancy. The first of our outposts should be there by now." "You will explain, sir," put in Rupert, with grave question. "It is simple enough. Six-score men—and I think all of them will ride, wounded or no—cover a good deal of country, set two miles apart. That was my father’s planning of our journey south—a horseman playing sentry, on a fresh horse, at every stage, until we sent news that you were coming to the relief of York." "Thorough!" said Rupert. "Strafford should be here, and Archbishop Laud—they understand that watchword." The Prince was housed at St. John’s, where Rupert had known light-heartedness in his student days. That evening the Metcalfs supped there—just the four of them, with little ceremony about the crude affair of eating—and afterwards they talked, soldiers proven in many fights, and men who, by instinctive knowledge of each other, had the self-same outlook on this dizzy world of battle, intrigue, and small-minded folk that hemmed them in. To them the King was England, Faith, and constancy. No effort was too hard on his behalf; no east wind of disaster, such as Rupert had suffered lately, could chill their steady hope. "There’s one perplexity I have," said Rupert, passing the wine across. "Why are your men so sure that they can find fresh horses for the asking at each two-mile stage? Horses are rare to come by since the war broke out." So Michael explained, with his daft laugh, that a Yorkshireman had some occult gift of scenting a horse leagues away, and a stubborn purpose to acquire him—by purchase if he had the money, but otherwise if Providence ordained it so. "Has the rider gone to Banbury?" he asked. "Yes, two hours since, by a messenger I trust, He is from Yorkshire, too—one Nicholas Blake, who never seems to tire."