"Because I asked him to return. Just to nurse his wounds would be—Paradise, I think."
The Metcalf men were a mile on the York road by now. Michael, the reputed black sheep and roysterer of the clan, rode close beside Christopher, and chattered of a face he had seen at an upper window of the Castle.
"A face to lead a man anywhere," he finished, "Hair like wind in the rusty brackens."
Kit touched the favour in his hat. "It is she I fight for, Michael—for the King and Joan."
"Are you always to have luck, just for the asking?" growled Michael.
"This time, yes, unless brother fights with brother."
For a moment they were ready to withdraw from their kinsfolk and settle the issue in some convenient glade. Then Michael yielded to the queer, jealous love he had learned, long since in Yoredale, for this lad.
"Oh, we'll not quarrel, Kit. There'll be another face for me at the next town we ride through. There are more swans than one, and all turn geese in later life."
Squire Mecca, hearing high words from the rear, rode back to learn what the uproar was about. "So you're at your brawling again, Michael?" he roared.
"No, sir. I was wishing Kit good luck for the lady's favour he is wearing in his hat."