"Idolatry, friends," said Michael suavely.
The three looked at each other with puzzled question. These strangers wore their hair in the fashion dear to Cavaliers, and they carried an intangible air that suggested lightness of spirit.
"You have the password," said one; "but your fashion is the fashion of Belial's sons. What would you?"
"We come with full powers to claim your papers and to do your errand with the forces now besieging York. To be candid, you are suspect of eating more and drinking more than sober Parliament men should—and, faith, your crowded table here bears out the scandal."
The three flushed guiltily, then gathered the dourness that stood to them for strength; and Kit wondered what was passing through his brother's nimble brain.
"Your credentials," snapped the one who seemed to be leader of the three.
Michael, glancing round the board, saw a great pasty, with the mincemeat showing through where the knife had cut it. "Oh, my own password is Christmas-pie, friends! I encountered the dish at Banbury, and a great uproar followed when my brother gave it the true name."
And now the Roundheads knew that they were being played with. So great was their party's abhorrence of anything which savoured of the Mass, that a dish, pleasant in itself, had long since grown to be a shibboleth.
The first man raised a pistol—a weapon that seemed out of keeping with his preacher's garb—but Kit, longing for action instead of all this play of words, ran in with a jolly laugh, lifted his man high, as one lifts a child in frolic, and let him drop. The pistol fell, too, and the trigger snapped; but the Parliament man, however strong his trust in Providence might be, had forgotten Cromwell's other maxim—that he should keep his powder dry.
Michael's voice was very gentle. "I said we came with full powers. It would be wiser not to play with fire. Indeed, we do not wish you ill, and, in proof of friendship, we are willing to change clothes with you."