They had not gone seven miles before they heard, wide on their bridle-hand, the braying1 of a donkey. It was not a casual braying, but a persistent2, wild appeal that would not be denied.
"Brother calls to brother," said Michael, with his diverting obedience3 to superstition4. "One of his kind helped me into York. We'll see what ails5 him."
They crossed a strip of barren moor6, and came to a hollow where some storm of wind and lightning had long since broken a fir coppice into matchwood. And here, at the edge of the dead trunks and the greening bracken, they found five of their kinsmen7 hemmed8 in by fourteen stiff-built rascals9 who carried pikes. On the outskirts10 of the battle a donkey was lifting her head in wild appeal.
With speed and certainty, Michael and his brother crashed down into the fight. The surprise, the fury of assault, though two horsemen only formed the rescue-party, settled the issue. And in this, had they known it, the Metcalfs were but proving that they had learned amid country peace what Rupert had needed years of soldiery to discover—the worth of a cavalry11 attack that is swift and tempestuous12 in the going.
"We thought you far on the road to Prince Rupert," said the Squire13 of Nappa, cleaning his sword-blade on a tuft of grass.
"So we should have been, sir, but we happened into Knaresborough. Kit14 here swooned for love of a lady—on my faith, the daintiest lass from this to Yoredale—and I could not drag him out until—until, you understand, the elder brother stepped in and made havoc15 of a heart that Kit could only scratch."
"Is this true, Christopher?"
"As true as most of Michael's tales. We fell ill of our wounds, sir, that was all."
The donkey had ceased braying now, and was rubbing a cool snout against Michael's hand. "Good lass!" he said. "If it hadn't been for your gift of song, and my own luck, there'd have been five Metcalfs less to serve His Majesty16."
The old Squire pondered a while, between wrath17 and laughter. "That is true," he said, in his big, gusty18 voice. "I always said there was room in the world, and a welcome, for even the donkey tribe. Kit, you look lean and harassed19. Tell us what happened yonder in Knaresborough."
Kit told them, in a brief, soldierly fashion that found gruff approval from the Squire; but Michael, rubbing the donkey's snout, must needs intrude20 his levity21.
"He forgets the better half of the story, sir. When we got inside the Castle, the prettiest eyes seen out of Yoredale smiled at him. And the lad went daft and swooned, as I told you—on my honour, he did—and the lady bound his shoulder-wound for him. A poor nurse, she; it was his heart that needed doctoring."
"And it was your head that needed it. She made no mistake there, Michael," said Squire Metcalf drily.
When the laughter ceased, Kit asked how they fell into this ambush22; and the Squire explained that a company of Roundheads had come in force to Ripley, that they had roused a busy hive of Metcalfs there, that in the wild pursuit he and four of his clan23 had outdistanced their fellows and had found themselves hemmed in. And in this, had he known it, there was a foreshadowing of the knowledge Rupert was to learn later on—that with the strength of headlong cavalry attack, there went the corresponding weakness. It was hard to refrain from undue24 pursuit, once the wine of speed had got into the veins25 of men and horses both.
"We're here at the end of it all," laughed the old Squire, "and that's the test of any venture."
"Our gospel, sister," said Michael, fondling the donkey's ears, "though, by the look of your sleek26 sides, you've thrived the better on it."
The Squire took Kit aside and drew the whole story from him of what he hoped to do in this search for Rupert. And he saw in the boy's face what the parish priest of Knaresborough had seen—the light that knows no counterfeit27.
"So, Kit, you're for the high crusade! Hold your dream fast. I've had many of them in my time, and lost them by the way."
"Storms brew29 up, and the light is there, but somehow sleet30 o' the world comes drifting thick about it. You go to seek Rupert?"
"Just that, sir."
"What route do you take?"
"Michael's—to follow the sun and our luck."
"That may be enough for Michael; but you sleep in Ripley to-night, you two. You need older heads to counsel you."
"Is Joan in the Castle still?" he asked, forgetting Knaresborough and Miss Bingham.
"Oh, yes. She has wings undoubtedly31 under her trim gown, but she has not flown away as yet. We'll just ride back and find you quarters for the night."
Michael, for his part, was nothing loth to have another day of ease. There was a dizzying pain in his head, a slackness of the muscles, that disturbed him, because he had scarce known an hour's sickness until he left Yoredale to accept shrewd hazard on King Charles's highway.
"How did my friend the donkey come to be with you in the fight?" he asked, as they rode soberly for home.
"She would not be denied," laughed Squire Mecca. "She made friends with all our horses, and where the swiftest of them goes she goes, however long it takes to catch us up. No bullet ever seems to find her."
When they came to Ripley, and the Squire brought his two sons into the courtyard, Lady Ingilby was crossing from the stables. She looked them up and down in her brisk, imperative33 way, and tapped Christopher on the shoulder—the wounded shoulder, as it happened.
"Fie, sir, to wince35 at a woman's touch! I must find Joan for you. Ah, there! you've taken wounds, the two of you. It is no time for jesting. The Squire told me you were galloping36 in search of Rupert."
"So we are," said Christopher. "This is just a check in our stride."
"As it happens, you were wise to draw rein37. A messenger came in an hour ago. The Prince is not in Lancashire, as we had hoped. He is still in Oxford38—I can confirm your news on that head—lighting small jealousies39 and worries. Rupert, a man to his finger-tips, is fighting indoor worries, as if he were a household drudge40. The pity of it, gentlemen!"
It was easy to understand how this woman had been a magnet who drew good Cavaliers to Ripley. Heart and soul, she was for the King. The fire leaped out to warm all true soldiers of his Majesty, to consume all half-way men. She stood there now, her eyes full of wonder and dismay that they could keep Rupert yonder in Oxford when England was listening for the thunder of his cavalry.
Joan Grant had not heard the incoming of the Metcalfs. She had been ill and shaken, after a vivid dream that had wakened her last night, and changed sleep to purgatory41. And now, weary of herself, prisoned by the stifled42 air indoors, she came through the Castle gate. There might be battle in the open, as there had been earlier in the day; but at least there would be fresh air.
Michael saw her step into the sunlight, and he gave no sign that his heart was beating furiously. Deep under his levity was the knowledge that his life from this moment forward was to be settled by the direction of a single glance.
Joan halted, seeing the press of men that filled the street. Then, among the many faces, she saw two only—Michael's and his brother's. And then, because all reticence43 had left her, she went straight to Christopher's side.
"Sir, you are wounded," she said, simple as any cottage-maid.
For the rest of the day Michael was obsessed44 by gaiety. Whenever the Squire began to talk of Rupert, to map out their route to Oxford, Michael interposed some senseless jest that set the round-table conference in a roar.
"Best go groom45 the donkey," snapped the Squire at last. "If ever the Prince gets York's message, it will be Kit who takes it."
"Kit has the better head. By your leave, sir, I'll withdraw."
"No, I was hasty. Stay, Michael, but keep your lightness under."
That night, when the Castle gate was closed, and few lights showed about the windows, Christopher met Joan Grant on the stairway. He was tired of wounds that nagged46 him, and he needed bed. She was intent on drowning sleeplessness47 among the old tomes in the library—a volume of sermons would serve best, she thought.
They met; and, because the times were full of speed and battle, she was the cottage maid again. All women are when the tempest batters48 down the frail49 curtains that hide the gentle from the lowly-born. "Was she very good to see?" she asked, remembering her last night's vision—it had been more than a dream, she knew.
So Kit, a rustic50 lad in his turn, flushed and asked what she meant. And she set the quibble aside, and told him what her dream was. She pictured Kharesborough—though her waking eyes had never seen the town—spoke51 of the gun-flare that had crossed the window-panes sometimes, while a girl watched beside his pillow.
"I was weak with my wounds," said Kit, not questioning the nearness of this over-world that had intruded52 into the everyday affairs of siege and battle.
"How direct you Metcalfs are! And the next time you are wounded there will be a nurse, and you'll grow weak again, till your heart is broken in every town that holds a garrison53."
"I leave that to Michael," he said quietly.
All that he had done—for the King, and for the light he had watched so often in her room at Ripley here—went for nothing, so it seemed, because he had blundered once, mistaking dreams for substance.
"I thought you were made of better stuff than Michael."
"There's no better stuff than Michael. Ask any Metcalf how he stands in our regard—easy-going when he's not needed, but an angel on a fiery54 horse when the brunt of it comes up. He's worth two of me, Joan."
Again Joan was aware that soldiery had taught this youngster much worth the knowing during the past months. He was master of himself, not wayward to the call of any woman.
"We're bidding farewell," she said.
"Yes," said Christopher. "To-morrow we set out for Oxford. Do you remember Yoredale? Your heart was at the top of a high tree, you said."
"So it is still, sir—a little higher than before."
"By an odd chance, so is mine. I chose a neighbouring tree."
She was silent for a while, then passed by him and down the stair. He would have called her back if pride had let him.
Then he went slowly up to bed, wondering that some freak of temper had bidden him speak at random55. For an hour it was doubtful whether tiredness or the fret56 of his healing wounds would claim the mastery; then sleep had its way.
"What have I said?" he muttered, with his last conscious thought.
He had said the one right thing, as it happened. Knaresborough had taught him, willy-nilly, that there are more ways than one of winning a spoiled lass for bride.
Next day he woke with a sense of freshness and returning vigour57. It was pleasant to see the steaming dishes ready for Michael and himself before their riding out, pleasant to take horse and hear the Squire bidding them God-speed, with a sharp injunction to follow the route he had mapped out for them. But Joan had not come to say farewell.
Just as they started, Lady Ingilby summoned Kit to her side, and behind her, in the shadow of the doorway58, stood Joan.
"She insists that you return the borrowed kerchief," said the older woman, with a gravity that wished to smile, it seemed.
Kit fumbled59 for a moment, then brought out a battered60 bit of cambric that had been through much snow and rain and tumult61. The girl took it, saw dark spots of crimson62 in among the weather-stains, and the whole story of the last few months was there for her to read. The tears were so ready to fall that she flouted64 him again.
"It was white when I gave it into your keeping."
Kit, not knowing why, thought of St. Robert's cell, of Knaresborough's parish priest and the man's kindly65 hold on this world and the next. "It is whiter now," he said, with a surety that sat well on him.
The truth of things closed round Lady Ingilby. Her big heart, mothering these wounded gentry66 who came in to Ripley, had been growing week by week in charity and knowledge. It had needed faith and pluck to play man and woman both, in her husband's absence, and now the full reward had come.
Quietly, with a royal sort of dignity, she touched Kit on the shoulder. "The man who can say that deserves to go find Rupert."
While Kit wondered just what he had said, as men do when their hearts have spoken, not their lips only, Joan Grant put the kerchief in his hand again. "I should not have asked for it, had I known it was so soiled. And yet, on second thoughts, I want it back again."
She touched it with her lips, and gave him one glance that was to go with him like an unanswered riddle67 for weeks to come. Then she was gone; but he had the kerchief in the palm of his right hand.
"Women are queer cattle," said Michael thoughtfully, after they had covered a league of the journey south.
"They've a trick of asking riddles," asserted Kit. "For our part, we've the road in front of us."
So then the elder brother knew that this baby of the flock had learned life's alphabet. The lad no longer carried his heart on his sleeve, but hid it from the beaks68 of passing daws.
They had a journey so free of trouble that Michael began to yawn, missing the excitement that was life to him, and it was only Kit's steady purpose that held him from seeking some trouble by the way. They skirted towns and even villages, save when their horses and themselves needed rest and shelter for the night. Spring was soft about the land, and their track lay over pasture-land and moor, with the plover69 flapping overhead, until they came into the lush country nearer south.
When they neared Oxford—their journey as good as ended, said Michael, with a heedless yawn—Kit's horse fell lame71. It was within an hour of dark, and ahead of them the lights of a little town began to peep out one by one.
They had planned to bivouac in the open, and be up betimes for the forward journey; but even Kit agreed that his horse needed looking to.
Through the warm night they made their way, between hedgerows fragrant73 with young leafage. All was more forward here than in the northland they had left, without that yap of the north-easter which is winter's dying bark in Yoredale. Peace went beside them down the lane, and, in front, the sleepy lights reached out an invitation to them through the dusk.
On the outskirts of the town they met a farmer jogging home.
"What do they call the place?" asked Michael.
"Banbury," said the farmer, with a jolly laugh; "where they keep good ale."
"Just that. Exchange was never robbery. First the ale was mellowed75; then I swallowed ale, I did, and now I'm mellow, too."
With a lurch76 in the saddle, and a cheery "Good night," he went his way, and Michael laughed suddenly after they had gone half a mile. "We forgot to ask him where the good ale was housed," he explained.
In the middle of the town they found a hostelry, and their first concern was with Kit's horse. The ostler, an ancient fellow whose face alone was warranty77 for his judgment78 of all horseflesh, said that the lame leg would be road-worthy again in three days, "but not a moment sooner." So Kit at once went the round of the stable, picked out the best horse there, and said he must be saddled ready for the dawn.
"One needs be, with Rupert only a day's ride away."
There was only one man in the "snug80" of the tavern81 when they entered. By the look of him, he, too, had found good ale in Banbury. Squat82 of body, unlovely of face, there was yet a twinkle in his eye, a gay indifference83 to his own infirmities, that appealed to Michael.
"Give you good e'en, gentlemen. What are your politics?" asked the stranger.
"We have none," said Kit sharply.
"That shows your wisdom. For my part—close the door, I pray—I'm a King's man, and have flown to drink—so much is obvious—for solace84. Believe me, I was never in a town that smelt85 so strongly of Roundheads as does Banbury. They meet one in the streets at every turn, and in the taverns86. One might think there was no Royalist alive to-day in England."
The man's bombast87, his easy flow of speech, the intonation88 now and then that proclaimed him one of life's might-have-beens, arrested Michael.
"Tell us more, friend," he said lazily.
"Gladly. I need help. I am making a tour, you understand, of the chief towns of England, staying a day or more in each, until the Muse89 arrives. I was ever one to hope; and, gentlemen, by the froth on my pewter-mug, I swear that many noblemen and gentry will buy my book of verses when it's all completed."
"So you need our help?" asked Michael, humouring him.
"Most urgently. I have a most diverting ditty in my head, about this town of Banbury. It runs in this way:
"Here I found a Puritan one
Hanging of his cat on a Monday
"Ah, you've taste, sir. But the trouble is, I find no rhyme to 'Puritan one.' To find no rhyme, to a poet, is like journeying through a country that brews92 no ale. Believe me, it is heartache, this search for a good rhyme."
"Puri*tane* one—the lilt running that way——"
"I have tried that, too," said the other with sorrow, "and still find no rhyme."
The door opened sharply, and the landlord bustled93 in. "Supper is served, gentlemen. I trust you will not mind sharing it with some officers of the Parliament quartered here?"
"Nothing would please us better," assented Michael. "Will our friend here join us, host?"
Yet Michael turned at the door. "I have it, Barnaby," he chuckled. "Here I found a Puritane one: bid him turn and grow a sane94 one'—that's the way of it, man."
"It rhymes," said Barnaby sadly, "but the true poetic95 fire is lacking. Leave me to it, gentlemen."
As they crossed the passage Kit drew his brother aside. "Remember what the Squire said, Michael. We need quiet tongues and a cool head if we're to find Rupert."
"Youngster, I remember. That was why I played the fool to Barnaby's good lead. All men trust a fool."
When they came to the parlour, they found a well-filled board, and round it six men, big in the beam, with big, cropped heads and an air of great aloofness96 from this world's concerns; but they were doing very well with knife and fork. The two Metcalfs answered all questions guardedly; and all went well until Kit saw a great pie brought in, a long, flat-shaped affair with pastry97 under and over, and inside, when its crust was tapped, a wealth of mincemeat of the kind housewives make at Christmas.
"Michael, this is all like Yoredale," said Kit unguardedly. "Here's a Christmas pie."
To his astonishment98, the Puritans half rose in their seats and glanced at him as if he had the plague. "There are Royalists among us," said one.
"What is all this nonsense, friends?" asked Michael, with imperturbable99 good temper.
"We call it mince-meat now. None of your Christmases for us, or any other Masses. None of Red Rome for us, I say. Banbury kills any man who talks of Masses."
"We've blundered somehow, Kit," whispered Michael nonchalantly.
"Say, do you stand for the King?" asked the Roundhead. "Yes or no—do you stand for the King?"
"Why, yes," said Kit. "Come on, you six crop-headed louts."
This was the end of Kit's solemnity, his over-serious attention to Prince Rupert's needs. And then they were in the thick of it, and the weight of the onset100 bore them down. When the battle ended—the table overturned, and three of the Roundheads under it—when Kit and Michael could do no more, and found themselves prisoners in the hands of the remaining three, the landlord, sleek and comfortable, bustled in.
"None, as you see," said Michael airily. "We had a jest, host, about your Christmas pie. They tell me none says Mass in Banbury because the town is altogether heathen."
So then a blow took him unawares, and when Kit and he woke next day, they found themselves in the town's prison.
Michael touched his brother with a playful foot. "You blundered, Kit, about that Christmas pie."
"Yes," said Christopher; "so now it's my affair, Michael, to find a way out of prison."
But Michael only laughed. "I wish we could find a rhyme to Puritane one," he said. "It would help that rogue102 we met last night."
The grey of early dawn stole through the window of the gaol103 and brightened to a frosty red as Michael and his brother sat looking at each other with grim pleasantry. Charged with an errand to bring Prince Rupert to the North without delay, they had won as far as this Roundhead-ridden town, a score miles or so from their goal, and a moment's indiscretion had laid them by the heels.
"Life's diverting, lad. I always told you so," said Michael. "It would have been a dull affair, after all, if we had got to Oxford without more ado."
"Ah, not so serious, lest they mistake you for a Puritan."
"It is all so urgent, Michael."
"True. The more need to take it lightly. Life, I tell you, runs that way, and I know something of women by this time. Flout63 life, Kit, toss it aside and jest at it, and all you want comes tumbling into your hands."
"I brought you into this. I'll find some way out of gaol," said the other, following his own stubborn line of thought.
The window was narrow, and three stout105 bars were morticed into the walls. Moreover, their hands were doubled-tied behind them. All that occurred to them for the moment was to throw themselves against the door, each in turn, on the forlorn chance that their weight would break it down.
"Well?" asked Michael lazily, after their second useless assault on the door. "High gravity and a long face do not get us out of gaol. We'll just sit on the wet floor, Kit, and whistle for the little imp34 me call Chance."
Michael tried to whistle, but broke down at sight of Kit's lugubrious106, unhumorous face. While he was still laughing, there was a shuffle107 of footsteps outside, a grating of the rusty108 door-lock, and, without word of any kind, a third prisoner was thrown against them. Then the door closed again, the key turned in the lock, and they heard the gaoler grumbling109 to himself as he passed into the street.
The new-comer picked himself up. He was dripping from head to foot; his face, so far as the green ooze110 of a horse-pond let them see it, was unlovely; but his eyes were twinkling with a merriment that won Michael's heart.
"Sirs, I warned you that Banbury was no good place for Cavaliers. I am pained to see you here."
Michael remembered the man now—a fellow who had jested pleasantly with them in the tavern just before they were taken by the Roundheads. "We forgot your warning, Mr. Barnaby," he said drily, "so we're here."
"I thank you, sir. Drunken Barnaby is all the address they give me nowadays. Perhaps you would name me Mr. Barnaby again; it brings one's pride out of hiding."
So then they laughed together; and friendship lies along that road. And after that they asked each other what had brought them to the town gaol.
"You spoke of Christmas pie, with Puritans about you?" said Drunken Barnaby. "I could have warned you, gentlemen, and did not. I was always a day behind the fair. They loathe111 all words that are connected with the Mass."
"We have learned as much," said Michael. "For your part, Mr. Barnaby, how came you here?"
"Oh, a trifle of ale-drinking! My heart was warm, you understand, and I roved down Banbury street with some song of glory coming for King Charles. I'm not warm now, but the cool o' the horse-pond has brought me an astonishing sobriety."
"Then tell us how to be quit of these four walls," snapped Kit, thinking ever of York and the need the city had of Prince Rupert.
"Give me time," said Drunken Barnaby, "and a little sleep. Between the forgetting and the waking, some gift o' luck will run my way."
Barnaby, with his little body and the traces of the horse-pond about him, had seemed to the gaoler of mean account, not worth the trouble of tying by the wrists. The rogue sat up suddenly, just as he was falling off to sleep.
"It is a mistake, my gentles, to disdain113 an adversary," he said, with that curious air of his, roystering, pedantic114 in the choice of phrases, not knowing whether he were ashamed of himself and all men, or filled with charitable laughter at their infirmities. "Our friend with the blue-bottle nose left my hands free, you observe, while yours are bound. Much water has gone into my pockets—believe me, I shall dislike all horse-ponds in the future—but the knife-blade there will not have rusted115 yet."
With a great show of strategy, still laughing at himself and them, he drew a clasp-knife from his breeches-pocket, opened it, and cut their thongs116.
"That's half-way on the road to Oxford," laughed Kit, rubbing the weals about his wrists. "It was kind of you to drink too much ale, Barnaby, and join us here."
Michael glanced at his young brother. "Humour returns to you," he said, with an approving nod. "I told you life was not half as serious as you thought it."
They tried the window-bars, the three of them, but found them sturdy. They battered the doorway again with their shoulders; it did not give. Barnaby drew a piece of wire from his pocket, and used great skill to pick the lock; he might as well have tried to pierce steel armour117 with a needle.
"There's nothing to be done to-night, gentles," he said, with a noisy yawn; "and, when there's nothing to be done, I've found a safe and gallant118 rule of conduct—one sleeps. Some day, if I find the Muse propitious119, I shall write an ode to sleep. It is the fabled120 elixir121 of life. It defies all fevers of the daytime; it is the coverlet that Nature spreads about her tired children. But, gentlemen, I weary you."
"You make me laugh," asserted Michael. "Since I left Yoredale, I've met none who had your grasp of life."
They settled themselves by and by to sleep, as best they could, on a wet floor, with the warmth of the new day rousing queer odours from their prison-house. There was the stealthy tread of rats about their bodies. It was Barnaby, after all, who was false to his gospel of deep slumber122. At the end of half an hour he reached over and woke Michael from a thrifty123 dream of Yoredale and corn yellowing to harvest.
"What is it?" growled Michael.
"I cannot sleep, sir. You recall that, in the tavern yesterday, I confessed myself a poet. The rhymes I have made, sir, are like the sands of the sea for multitude. I was never troubled till I came to Banbury."
"Then journey forward. There are other towns."
"You do not understand me. Towns to be taken by assault, by any rhymes that offer, do not entice124 me. It is the hardship of attack that tempts125 your true soldier. You will grant me that?"
"I'll grant you anything, Barnaby, so long as you let me sleep on this wet floor. I dreamed I was lying on a feather-bed."
"But the rhyme? You remember how the poem went: 'Here I found a Puritan one, hanging of his cat on a Monday, for killing of a mouse on a Sunday.' A fine conceit, sir, but I can find no rhyme for Puritan one, as I told you."
Kit, for his part, was awake, too, and some jingle126 of a poem, in praise of his mistress at Ripley in the north, was heating his brain. But the lad was learning wisdom these days, and held his peace; there was no need to bring other men to Joan Grant by undue singing of her praises.
"Believe me, this verse-making is a fever in the blood," protested Barnaby. "Naught127 serves until the rhyme is found. It is a madness, like love of a lad for a maid. There is no rhyme to Puritan."
"Friend," said Michael, "I need sleep, if you do not. Remember what I said last night. Puri*tane* one—try it that way. Get your man round to the King's cause, and he becomes a sane one."
"But, sir——"
Michael smiled happily. "We have a saying in Yoredale: 'I canna help your troubles, friend; I've enough of my own.' Take it or leave it at Puri*tane* one. For myself, I'm going to sleep."
Barnaby sat wrestling with the Muse. His mind, like all men's, was full of hidden byways, and the most secret of them all was this lane that led into the garden of what, to him, was poetry. A tramp on life's highway, a drinker at taverns and what not, it was his foible that he would be remembered by his jingling128 verses—as, indeed, he was, centuries after the mould had settled over his unknown grave.
It might be five minutes later, or ten, that Kit stirred in sleep, then sat bolt upright. He heard steps on the cobbled street outside, the turning of a rusty key in the lock. Then the door opened, and he saw the squat figure of the gaoler, framed by a glimpse of Banbury street, grey and crimson in the clean light of the new day. Without haste he got to his feet, stretched himself to the top of his great height, then went and picked the gaoler up and swung him to and fro lightly, as if he were a child.
"Michael," he said, "what shall we do with this fellow? Michael, wake, I tell you!"
When Michael came out of his sleep, and Drunken Barnaby out of his rhyming, they sat in judgment on the gaoler. They tried him for high treason to King Charles. They sentenced him to detention129 in His Majesty's gaol sine die, and went into the street, locking the door behind them.
"You shall have the key, Mr. Barnaby," said Michael. "Release him when and how you like. For ourselves, we ride to Oxford."
"Nay130, you walk," said Barnaby, with great solemnity. "Oh, I know your breed! You're all for going to the tavern for your horses. It will not do, gentles. The town is thick with Roundheads."
"How can we walk twenty miles, with our errand a day or two old already?" said Kit.
"Beggars must foot it, when need asks. Do you want to sing 'Christmas Pie' again all down Banbury street, and have your errand spoiled? Listen, sirs. This town does not suit my health just now; it does not suit yours. Permit me to guide you out of it along a byway that I know."
Kit was impatient for the risk, so long as they found horses; but Michael saw the wisdom underlying131 Barnaby's counsel. The three of them set out, along a cart-track first, that led between labourers' cottages on one hand and a trim farmstead on the other, then into the open fields. A league further on they struck into the Oxford highway, an empty riband of road, with little eddies132 of dust blown about by the fingers of the quiet breeze.
"Here we part, gentles," said Barnaby, with his air of humorous pedantry133. "Oxford is for kings and prelates. I know my station, and my thirst for a brew of ale they have four miles over yonder hill."
They could not persuade him that, drunk or sober, he had rescued them from Banbury, that they would be glad of his further company. He turned once, after bidding them farewell, and glanced at Kit with his merry hazel eyes. "I've got that song of Banbury," he said. "It all came to me when I saw you dandling the gaoler with the blue-bottle nose. Strife134 and battle always helped the poets of a country, sir, since Homer's time."
"There goes a rogue," laughed Michael, listening to the man's song of Banbury as he went chanting it up the rise. "Well, I've known worse folk, and he untied135 our hands."
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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2
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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3
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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4
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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5
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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6
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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7
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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8
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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9
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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10
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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11
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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12
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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13
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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14
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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15
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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16
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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17
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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18
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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19
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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20
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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21
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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22
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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23
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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24
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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25
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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26
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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27
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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28
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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29
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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30
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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31
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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32
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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34
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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35
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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36
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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37
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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38
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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39
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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40
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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41
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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42
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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43
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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44
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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45
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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46
nagged
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| adj.经常遭责怪的；被压制的；感到厌烦的；被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的过去式和过去分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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47
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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48
batters
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| n.面糊（煎料）( batter的名词复数 )；面糊（用于做糕饼）；（ 棒球） 正在击球的球员；击球员v.连续猛击( batter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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50
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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51
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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52
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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53
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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54
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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55
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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56
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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57
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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58
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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59
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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60
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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61
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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62
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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63
flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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64
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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66
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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67
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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68
beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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69
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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70
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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71
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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72
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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73
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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74
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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75
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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76
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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77
warranty
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| n.担保书，证书，保单 | |
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78
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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79
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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81
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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82
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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83
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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84
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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85
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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86
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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87
bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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88
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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89
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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90
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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91
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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92
brews
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| n.（尤指某地酿造的）啤酒( brew的名词复数 )；酿造物的种类；（茶）一次的冲泡量；（不同思想、环境、事件的）交融v.调制( brew的第三人称单数 )；酝酿；沏（茶）；煮（咖啡） | |
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93
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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94
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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95
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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96
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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97
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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98
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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99
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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100
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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101
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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103
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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104
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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106
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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107
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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108
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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109
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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110
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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111
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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112
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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113
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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114
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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115
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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117
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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118
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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119
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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120
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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121
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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122
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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123
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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124
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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125
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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126
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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127
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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128
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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129
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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130
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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131
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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132
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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133
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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135
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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