"Ay," said Merrylips, "for Walsover lieth in the west."
"But first of all," Rupert went on, "for this I learned yesterday in the village, we must cross the river Slyne that barreth our passage into the west. And we cannot cross it by the bridge at King's Slynton, now that the rebels are there, so we must go northward to a village called Slynford, where there is a fording place."
"And is it far?" Merrylips asked as she rose stiffly to her feet.
"Not far, I think," Rupert cheered her. "Not above two league, I am sure."
Now two leagues may sound a very little distance, when the words are read by a snug fireside. But two leagues, when tramped through drizzling wet and mire, on tired feet, become a weary long journey, as Merrylips and Rupert found. It was sunset, if there had been a sun to set upon that damp and gloomy day, when they limped at last down the sticky road into Slynford.
The first sound that greeted them, as they set foot in the village street, was a dirty little boy's shouting to his mate:—
"Haste ye, Herry Dautry! The sojers do be changing guard at the ford. Come look upon 'em for a brave show!"
Then they knew that they had come too late. Here in Slynford, as at King's Slynton, was an outpost of the rebel army that barred the passage into the west.
Perhaps if they had gone straight to the ford and asked to be let cross, they might have got leave, for they were very young and harmless-looking travellers. But Rupert and Merrylips were both too tired and hungry and discouraged to pluck up heart for such a bold undertaking.
Moreover, after his sad experience in King's Slynton, Rupert was shy of getting within arm's reach of rebel soldiers. He might be robbed of what money was left him, he told Merrylips. So they agreed that they should do well to leave Slynford and try to cross the river farther north.