“Enter.”
The man-at-arms stood aside, and the trio went up the clattering street until they came to a house of entertainment once called “The King’s Head,” with a picture of Charles on the swaying sign, now slightly changed to represent Fairfax, a good Yorkshireman, while the lettering had been obliterated and “The Fairfax Arms” painted over it. The leader of the expedition ordered the best apartment in the house for the lady, and sat where he was while the bustling landlord assisted the fatigued traveller to dismount. Armstrong and old John saw to the disposal of the horses, then the young man walked to the minster and round it, noticing everywhere the ravages of the late siege. The town had not yet recovered its arrested prosperity, and most of the people he met were heavy-footed soldiers and citizens in sombre dress. York had been Royalist to the core, and now calamity seemed to brood over it. Armstrong made his way to a mercer’s shop in the main street.
“My garments,” he said to the obsequious proprietor, “are somewhat stained, and I would renew them.”
“There are many changing their coats nowadays,” replied the man, “and we must even cut them of the cloth most popular.”
He whipped out a measuring-tape and deftly took the dimensions of his customer, muttering the numbers as he stretched his arms.
“I have no time to spare for the making of a costume, but must content myself with what lies on your shelves.”
“Sir, I took you for a traveller, and am but estimating what will best become you. Your inches are just on the large side, sir, but I shall pleasure you, never fear.”
He spread out on the long table some apparel in dejected brown, which, as it seemed to Armstrong, was but clumsily cut.
“You would garb me as a shepherd, I see. I come from the North, where we are not tailor’s models, perhaps, but we scorn such duds as you exhibit. Cannot you furnish me with something more like what I wear?”
The mercer looked at him, hesitating for a moment, then led the way to an inner room.