"Bonnie, though I’ve not seen either since last year’s harvest. This King’s affair of ride and skirmish is well enough; but there’s no time to slip away to Yoredale for a day and smell the wind up yonder. Are Kit and Michael safe?"
"They are in Oxford, accepting flattery with astounding modesty."
"They’ve found Prince Rupert? The Metcalfs—oh, I touch wood!—keep a bee-line when they know where home lies."
"That is no boast, so why go touching wood? I tell you the King knows what your folk have done and hope to do. The Prince is raising cavalry for the relief of York, and will not rest until you Metcalfs join him. How soon can your company get south?"
The horseman thought the matter over. "It will take five days and a half," he said at last.
"Good for you!" snapped Blake. "Even your brother Christopher, with the starry look o’ dreams about his face, was sure that it would take seven days. I wager a guinea to a pinch o’ snuff that you’re not in Oxford in five days and a half."
"Then lend me the pinch of snuff. I emptied my box in waiting for you, and was feeling lonely."
Blake laughed as he passed his box over. There was an arresting humour about the man, a streak of the mother-wit that made the Metcalf clan at home in camp or city. "I’ll see you to the next stage," he said, reining his horse about—"that is, if you care for an idle man’s company. I’ve nothing in the world to do just now."
The other only nodded, touched his horse sharply with the spur, and Blake found himself galloping with a fury that, even to his experience of night adventures, seemed breakneck and disastrous. At the end of a mile their horses were in a lather; at the end of two they had to check a little up the rise of a hill. On the top of the hill, clear against the sky, they saw a horseman sitting quiet in saddle. They saw, too, that his sword was out, and naked to the moonlight.
[Illustration: "They saw, too, that his sword was out, and naked to the moonlight."]
"Cousin does not slay cousin," said the man on the hill-top, rattling his sword into the sheath again. "Have they found Rupert?" The second rider was given his errand briefly and without waste of breath. Then he flicked his horse, and Blake was tempted to follow him, too. There was something uncanny, some hint of mystery and deep, resistless strength about this picketing of the road north. Blake had a quick imagination; he saw this chain of riders, linking York with Oxfordshire, spurring through a country fast asleep—only they and the moon and the nightingales awake—until, kinsman passing the message on to kinsman at each two-miles stage, the last rider came in with his tale of "Boot and saddle."