Joan Grant looked, and, seeing Kit there, friendless and courageous, she felt a quickening of the wayward thing she called her heart. She got down from the carriage, and stepped to the bench that stood under the inn wall; then, seeing the welcome in Kit's eyes—a welcome near to adoration—she withdrew a little.
"So this comes of riding for the King?" she asked, with high disdain.
And something stirred in Christopher—a new fire, a rebellion against the glamour that had put his manhood into leading-strings.
"If this comes, or worse, I'm glad to ride for the King," he said.
"If I loosed your hands and bade you take a seat in my coach——"
"I should not take it; there is other work to do."
Joan, under the smart of the rebuff, was pleased with this man of hers. Something had happened to him since yesterday. He was no longer the uncouth boy, thinking he could have the moon by asking for it.
"You're rough and uncivil, sir."
"I am. These lambs of the Parliament are teaching me new manners."
She bowed carelessly, drew her skirts away from the litter of the roadway, and went perhaps ten paces toward her carriage. Then she turned. "I can be of no service to you, then?" she asked coldly.