“I am, sir,” says I.
“I have here a despatch of the strictest importance for Sir Thomas Fairfax, who is now investing the castle at Pomfret,” says he. “I think you are the man to carry it.”
“Sir,” says I, “I am at your orders.”
He sat looking at me, his fingers playing drum-taps on the sealed packet.
“This,” says he, “must not be permitted to fall into the hands of the enemy. ’Twixt Sheffield and Pomfret they are now in full force. I think you, as a native of that part, should circumvent them.”
“I’ll undertake that, too,” says I.
“What do you propose?” says he.
“Not to travel like this,” says I, with a glance at my uniform. “I’ll go as a travelling scholar—I have my old suit at hand.”
“Begone,” says he, and hands over the packet. He kept his thumb and finger on one corner of it, and looked me squarely in the face. “If this should fall into the enemy’s hand,” he says, and pauses. He let the packet go. “You will be on your way in an hour, Master Coope,” says he, and waves me out.
I was out of the camp in half-an-hour after that, and on my way northward. I wore my old suit, and out of one pocket stuck a Livy, and out of the other a Horace. As for the packet for Sir Thomas Fairfax, it was sewed within the lining of my doublet. I had ridden a good ten mile before I remembered that my mission would give me the opportunity of waiting upon Sir Nicholas. That, I think, added some zest to my adventure, for I was honestly anxious to see the good old knight once more.