A stormy light came into the Squire’s grey eyes. "We have heard of the Duchess. Her name is fragrant in the North, sir, save where ostlers gather at the tavern and pass gossip on for gaping yokels." "Countered, you dandy!" laughed Digby’s neighbour. "Grooms in Oxford and grooms in the North—hey, where’s the difference?" "We shall prove it, sir, at dawn to-morrow," said Digby, his hand slipping to his sword-hilt. "Oh, content. I always liked to slit a lie in two, and see the two halves writhe and quiver." The Squire of Nappa, looking at these two, guessed where the danger of the King’s cause lay. Men see clearly when heart and soul and purpose are as one. If two of his own company had offered and accepted such a duel openly, he would have taken them, one in either hand, and knocked their heads together, in the interests of discipline. In Oxford, it seemed usual that private differences should take precedence of the King’s service, and the Squire felt chilled for the first time since he rode out from Yoredale. Prince Rupert had shared a late breakfast with the Duke of Richmond and the Duchess, who was, in heart and soul, a great lady beyond the reach of paltry malice. Rupert was moody, irritable. He was sick for pageantry in the doing—gallop of his cavalry with swords glancing on Roundhead skulls—blows given for the health of the reigning King, instead of play-acting to the memory of buried monarchs. He was passionately disdainful of this pageant in which he was to play a part, though at the moment he was donning mediaeval armour. "I should have held aloof from it all," he protested. "No," said the Duchess. "There could have been no pageantry without you. Believe me, it is good for us to have action, if only in the playing—it lights dull days for us." Rupert strode up and down the floor with his restless, long-legged stride. "I’m to figure as Richard the Crusader," he said, tired of himself and all things. "I ask you, friends, do I show like a Crusader?" "Your temper of the moment does not, but a man’s past goes with him," she broke in, with her soft, infectious laugh. "Of all the King’s gentlemen I know, my husband here, and you, stand nearest to the fine crusading days. To please us both, you will play your part?" Rupert was beyond reach of blandishment. There was a fire from the over-world about him; men and women grew small in the perspective, and only the vigour and abiding zeal he had for the King’s service remained to guide him, like a taper shining through a night of trouble. "Friends," he said, simply as a child, "I had a dream last night. I dreamed that prayers were answered at long last, and that the sea rode into Oxford—a gallant sea, creamed with white horses riding fast." "How should that be?" laughed the Duke. "It was a tired man’s dream."