So then the elder brother knew that this baby of the flock had learned life's alphabet. The lad no longer carried his heart on his sleeve, but hid it from the beaks of passing daws.
They had a journey so free of trouble that Michael began to yawn, missing the excitement that was life to him, and it was only Kit's steady purpose that held him from seeking some trouble by the way. They skirted towns and even villages, save when their horses and themselves needed rest and shelter for the night. Spring was soft about the land, and their track lay over pasture-land and moor, with the plover flapping overhead, until they came into the lush country nearer south.
When they neared Oxford—their journey as good as ended, said Michael, with a heedless yawn—Kit's horse fell lame. It was within an hour of dark, and ahead of them the lights of a little town began to peep out one by one.
"Best lodge yonder for the night," said Michael.
They had planned to bivouac in the open, and be up betimes for the forward journey; but even Kit agreed that his horse needed looking to.
Through the warm night they made their way, between hedgerows fragrant with young leafage. All was more forward here than in the northland they had left, without that yap of the north-easter which is winter's dying bark in Yoredale. Peace went beside them down the lane, and, in front, the sleepy lights reached out an invitation to them through the dusk.
On the outskirts of the town they met a farmer jogging home.
"What do they call the place?" asked Michael.
"Banbury," said the farmer, with a jolly laugh; "where they keep good ale."
"So it seems, friend. You're mellow as October."