"Who spoke of Joan Grant?"
"Your cheeks, lad, and the note in your voice. Nay, no heat. D'ye think the Prince gave us this venture for you to go standing under yon Ripley casement, sighing for the moon that lives behind it? York would be relieved and all over, before I steadied you."
"You've no heart, Michael."
"None, lad; and I'm free of trouble, by that token."
And Kit, the young fire in his veins, did not know that Michael was jesting at the grave of his own hopes. That upper chamber—the look of Mistress Joan, her pride and slenderness—were matters that had pierced the light surface of his life, once for all.
"The York country was eaten bare when I last went through it," he said, after they had ridden a league in silence. "It will be emptier now. Best snatch a meal at the tavern here, Kit, while we have the chance. Our wits will need feeding if we're to find our way into York."
They found a cheery host, a table well spread with cold meats. When the host returned with wine, ordered hastily, he glanced at his guests with an air that was half humorous and half secretive.
"Here is the wine, Mr. Metcalf," he said—"the best of a good cellar, though I say it."
"Eh?" drawled Michael, always most indolent when surprised. "You know my name, it seems."
"Well, sir, if two big, lusty gentry choose to come riding two white horses—and all the Plain o' York ringing with news of the Riding Metcalfs—small blame to me if I guessed your quality. I'm a King's man, too."