"God rest the gentlemen of Scarborough. They have earned their holiday, as we have."
Michael was busy with the stew-pot, hanging gipsy-wise on three sticks above a fire of gorse and fir-cones. "It's hey for Skipton-in-Craven," he said with a cheery smile. "I aye liked the comely town, and now the King will know that she was the last in all the North to stand for him."
"Maybe Skipton has fallen, too, by this time," chided the Squire. "You were always one for dreams, Michael."
Michael was silent till the meal was ended. Then he mowed a swath of thistles with his sword, and brought the spoil to Elizabeth, tethered to a neighbouring tree. She brayed at him with extreme tenderness.
"Now that we're well victualled, friends," he said lazily, "who comes with me to hear how it fares with Skipton?"
The Governor did not like the venture—the hazard of it seemed too great—but Squire Metcalf did.
"How d'ye hold together at all, Michael?" roared the Squire. "So much folly and such common sense to one man's body—it must be a civil war within yourself."
Michael glanced at Joan Grant with an instinct of which he repented instantly. "It is, sir. Since I was born into this unhappy world, there has been civil war inside me. I need an outlet now."
"You shall have it, lad."
"And you call this common sense?" asked the Governor, with good-tempered irony.