Michael touched his brother with a playful foot. "You blundered, Kit, about that Christmas pie."
"Yes," said Christopher; "so now it's my affair, Michael, to find a way out of prison."
But Michael only laughed. "I wish we could find a rhyme to Puritane one," he said. "It would help that rogue we met last night."
The grey of early dawn stole through the window of the gaol and brightened to a frosty red as Michael and his brother sat looking at each other with grim pleasantry. Charged with an errand to bring Prince Rupert to the North without delay, they had won as far as this Roundhead-ridden town, a score miles or so from their goal, and a moment's indiscretion had laid them by the heels.
"Life's diverting, lad. I always told you so," said Michael. "It would have been a dull affair, after all, if we had got to Oxford without more ado."
"They need Rupert, yonder in York," growled Kit.
"Ah, not so serious, lest they mistake you for a Puritan."
"It is all so urgent, Michael."
"True. The more need to take it lightly. Life, I tell you, runs that way, and I know something of women by this time. Flout life, Kit, toss it aside and jest at it, and all you want comes tumbling into your hands."
"I brought you into this. I'll find some way out of gaol," said the other, following his own stubborn line of thought.